Class z Book CopyriglitN!'. t'OP[m?GHT DEPOSm Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/outlineofpsycholOOtitc AN OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY «^ Jpm. AN OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY / BY EDWARD BRADFORD TITCHENER '//2. ^ ^? i/-& - / THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 1896 A/^ rights reserved 1\^ Copyright, 1896, By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. NortoooB iPrtSB J. S. Gushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U.S.A. PREFACE My aim in writing this book has been to present in brief outHne and simple form the methods and most important results of experimental psychology. The volume contains the substance of lectures delivered to second and third year classes in the Cornell University, and is designed primarily as a text-book for those who attend my lecture courses. I hope, however, that its sphere of usefulness may extend beyond these limits. The plan of the work is analytic. It sets out from the consideration of the simplest factors in adult mental expe- rience, and endeavours gradually to build up the actual mind from the laws of these simple factors and their groupings. After a general introduction comes a series of four chapters, which deal with the elementary conscious functions. A second series discusses those complex men- tal processes which are easiest of analysis and lend them- selves best to individual treatment. A third series deals in part with still more complicated processes, while in part it pushes the analysis of previous chapters still further. A concluding section surveys the results of the whole enquiry, and indicates the point at which psychology gives place to metaphysics. vi Preface The general standpoint of the book is that of the tra- ditional English psychology. The system which is out- lined in it, however, stands also in the closest relation to that presented in the more advanced treatises of the German experimental school, Kiilpe's Outlines of Psycho- logy and Wundt's Grundzilge der physiologischen Psycho- logic . While I have tried to make the present work complete in itself, I have also written with the view of producing a book which should be preparatory to these standard psychologies. At the same time I have not attempted to * boil down ' either of the larger works. The facts recorded have been gathered from them and from many other sources, to which I here make general acknowledgment, — all that is permitted by the scope of my undertaking. But no statements in the text have been taken upon trust, and no experiment is described which I have not myself performed. The book presupposes, as every psychology must, a certain amount of physical and physiological knowledge on the part of the reader. I have, however, reduced this amount to as small a compass as possible, and do not think that any question will arise which cannot be cleared up at once by reference to an elementary physical or physiological text-book. The subject-matter has throughout been broken up into sections ; so that if it is desired to employ the book for a shorter course than that for which it has been designed, it is only necessary to select the more important passages and ignore the rest. Thus it is possible to omit §§ 3, 5 ^nd 6 of Chapter I ; §§ 8 and ii of Chapter II; § 2i and others Preface vii of Chapter III ; the whole of Chapter IV, etc., as well as to curtail the remaining sections by neglecting some of the descriptions of method and other supplementary remarks. I owe a heavy debt of gratitude to Miss E. B. Talbot, a member of my graduate seminary, and to my colleagues, Drs. D. Irons and W. B. Pillsbury, for constant advice and assistance during the preparation of the work. I have further to thank President J. G. Schurman for valuable suggestions with regard to the earlier chapters, and Miss C. S. Parrish and my wife for help upon many special points. The ten figures in the text (some of which are adapted from other works) were kindly drawn for me by Professor H. D. Williams. Cornell University, Ithaca, N. Y. June I, 1896. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I The Meaning and Problem of Psychology PAGE § I. The Beginnings of Psychology ....... i § 2. The Definition of Psychology ....... 3 § 3. Mental Process, Consciousness and Mind ..... 9 § 4. The Problem of Psychology . . . . . . .12 § 5. The Subdivisions of Psychology . . . . . . ■ ^7 § 6. External Aids to Psychology . .«,... 21 PART I CHAPTER II Sensation as a Conscious Element. The Method of Investigating Sensation § 7. The Definition of Sensation . . . . § 8. The Attributes of Sensation . . . . § ,9. The Method of Investigating Sensation § 10. General Rules for the Introspection of Sensation §11. The Classification of Sensations . . . . 26 29 32 37 42 CHAPTER III The Quality of Sensation I. Sensations of Special Sense §12. The Quality of Visual Sensations . . . . , . 45 § 13. The Quality of Auditory Sensations . . , . ♦ 5° ix X Contents PAGE § 14. The Quality of Olfactory Sensations • • • . • 53 §15. The Quality of Gustatory Sensations ...... 54 §16. The Quality of Cutaneous Sensations . . . . . .56 II. Organic Sensations § 17. The Quality of Muscular, Tendinous and Articular Sensations . 59 § 18. The Quality of Alimentary Sensations ..... 62 § 19. The Quality of the Circulatory, Respiratory and Sexual Sensations 63 § 20. The Quality of the Static Sense . . . . . . .63 III. Common Sensation § 21. Pain 65 § 22. The Total Number of Elementary Sensations .... 66 CHAPTER IV The Intensity, Extent and Duration of Sensation § 23. Intensity, Extent and Duration as Attributes of Sensation . . 68 § 24. The Minimal Intensity, Extent and Duration of Sensation . . 70 § 25. The Maximal Intensity, Extent and Duration of Sensation . . 74 § 26. The Relation of Intensity, Extent and Duration to Quality of Sensation .......... 76 § 27. Weber's Law 78 § 28. Eye Measurement ... . . ... .82 § 29. The Time Sense ......... 84 § 30. The Meaning of Weber's Law . . . . . . -87 CHAPTER V Affection as a Conscious Element. The Methods of Investigating Affection §31. The Definition of Affection 92 § 32. Affection and Sensation ........ 94 §33. The Methods of Investigating Affection ..... loi §34. The Attributes of Affection . . - . . . .105 Contents XI CHAPTER VI Conation and Attention § 35. Bodily Tendency and Mental Constitution . § 36. The Question of a Third Conscious Element § 37. Conation ..... § 38. The Nature and Forms of Attention § 39. The Attributes of Attention § 40. The Degree of Attention . § 41. The Duration of Attention § 42. The Range of Attention PAGE 109 116 120 125 135 137 140 144 PART II _ CHAPTER Vn Perception and Idea § 43. Sensation, Perception and Idea ....... 148 I. Extensive Ideas § 44. Locality or Position . . . . . . . . .154 § 45. Form and Magnitude . . . . . , . .163 § 46. Extent of Movement . . . . . . . . .168 II. Temporal Ideas '^ § 47. Rhythm 172 §48. Rate of Movement . . . . . . . . .174 III. Qualitative Ideas §49. .Clangs 176 § 50. Melody 180 §51. The Function of the Idea 183 CHAPTER VIII The Association of Ideas § 52. The Nature and Forms of Association § 53. Simultaneous Association .... 188 191 Xll Contents § 54. Successive Association § 55. The Law of Association .^ PAGE 202 207 CHAPTER IX Feeling and Emotion § 56. The Nature and Forms of Feeling § 57. The Nature of Emotion § 58. The F"orms of Emotion § 59. The Expression of the Emotions § 60. Mood, Passion and Temperament 213 219 221 224 230 CHAPTER X Voluntary Movement. The Analysis of Action §61. The Nature of Action . . § 62. The Beginnings of Voluntary Action . § 63. The Nature of Impulsive Action § 64. The Place of Impulse in Consciousness §65. The Forms of Impulse § 66. Reflex Action ..... § 67. Instinctive Action . . . . § 68. Selective, Volitional and Automatic Action § 69. Inaction . . . . ., . 234 238 240 244 246 248 250 254 258 PART III CHAPTER XI Recognition, Memory and Imagination § 70. The Nature of Recognition §71. The Forms of Recognition § 72. Recognition and Cognition § 73. The Investigation of Recognition 261 263 266 268 Contents Xlll § 74. Recognition and Memory . § 75. The Memory-Idea § 76. Retention § 77. Memory and Cognition § 78. The Investigation of Memory § 79. The Nature and Forms of Imagination § 80. Illusions of Recognition and Memory CHAPTER XII Self-Consciousness and Intellection § 81. Self-Consciousness ..... § 82. Intellection ...... § %'^. The Formation of Concepts § 84. Reasoning ...... § 85. Comparison or Discrimination, and Abstraction CHAPTER XIII . Sentiment § 86. The Nature of Sentiment . § 87. The Forms of Sentiment . § 88. The ^Esthetic Sentiments . § 89. The Basis of ^Esthetic Sentiment § 90. The Intellectual Sentiments § 91. The Social or Ethical and the Religious Sentiments CHAPTER XIV The Synthesis of Action. The Reaction Experiment § 92. The Synthesis of Action ...... § 93. The Simple Reaction ...... § 94. The Discrimination Reaction and the Cognition Reaction § 95. The Choice Reaction ...... § 96. The Automatic Reaction . . . § 97. The Function of the Reaction Experiment § 98. The Association Reaction ...,,. PAGE 270 271 275 278 278 282 285 287 294 299 301 306 307 312 315 1^1 319 323 328 330 332 335 xiv Contents CONCLUSION CHAPTER XV The Ultimate Nature of Mind. Mind and Body. PAGE § 99. The Mind of Psychology . 339 § 100. Mind and Body , 342 § loi. The Mind of Metaphysics 344 INDEX 347 AN OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 3XKOO- INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I The Meaning and Problem of Psychology § I. The Beginnings of Psychology. — Knowledge is the product of leisure. The members of a very primitive society have no time to amass knowledge ; their days are fully occupied with the provision of the bare neces- sities of life. But as soon as a community begins to accumulate wealth, and so becomes able to support a leisured class (priests, instructors of rich men's children), an opportunity is created for those who desire knowledge to devote their lives to its acquirement. Out of this ' curiosity to know ' science is born. Men look out upon the world, and see that it is full of objects which call for investigation. Inanimate nature is made to reveal her secrets ; laws are discovered in the fall of the stone, the ebb and flow of water, the spread of colours in the rainbow : physics, the * mother of the sciences,' has arisen. Birds and beasts and fishes have their special habits and their special structure, the observation of which is the starting-point of zoology. Physics and zoology, and indeed all the sciences, find their source in analysis. What at first seems simple, is shown by B I 2 TJie Meaning and Problem of Psychology careful observation to be compound, and is split up into more simple parts ; these, in their turn, into still sim- pler ; and so on, — until the science has reached its ele- ments, the simplest things or processes which belong to it, things and processes which cannot be further reduced or more minutely subdivided. The first analysis is always analysis of the outward, the external. Just as the infant (whose history is the history of the human race, epitomised, condensed into half-a-dozen years) gets its earliest experiences in the form of experiences of the things or objects about it, and only after a time attains to self-experience, or comes to speak of itself as * I,' so mankind at large, at that primitive stage of their development which we are now considering, were attracted to the study of nature and of natural objects. " The understanding," says Locke, — and he might have used a word of wider significance, and said the 'mind,' — the understanding or the mind, " like the eye, while it makes us see and perceive all other things, takes no notice of itself ; and it requires art and pains to set it at a distance, and make it its own object." Let us suppose, however, that this knowledge of nature has advanced a certain distance ; that the physicist or zoologist has collected a large number of observations and arranged them to his satisfaction. It is not to be expected that he will henceforth cease to desire knowledge ; for the more we know, the more do we wish to know, "as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on." He will rather seek to enlarge the boundaries of his know- ledge ; to discover new facts, of a different order from those which he has hitherto studied. And at this point §§ I, 2. Beginnings and Definition of Psychology 3 the thought may very well occur to him, How is it that / can discover facts at all ? The facts are one thing : he himself, who desires to know about the facts, and who is able to understand and interpret them, is another. Hence he may come to believe that it is worth his while to enquire about himself, just as he has been enquiring about things. " Art and pains," it is true, are demanded of him ; but the art achieved may be judged worth the pains to be taken for its achievement. " Whatever be the diffi- culties that lie in the way of this enquiry," so Locke goes on, " sure I am that all the light we can let in upon our own minds, all the acquaintance we can make with our own understandings, will not only be very pleasant, but bring us great advantage." Now when the enquiry has been started, when the question has been asked as to the difference between oneself and the things outside oneself, philosophy has sprung into being, — and with philosophy, psychology. Psychology, then, is a late development of human knowledge ; it does not appear until the sciences of nature have made some progress. And these sciences them- selves cannot take shape until mankind has attained a certain stage of civilisation. § 2. The Definition of Psychology. — Philosophy began as a body of reflective knowledge in which no sharp line of distinction was drawn between one department of thought and another. Yet it contained from the first the germs of many sciences which should later be sharply separated. To-day we hardly use the general name * philosopher * ; we speak of the * logician ' or the * moral- ist ' or the * metaphysician ' ; and if we employ the word ' philosophy,' we think of it as comprising a number of 4 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology special sciences or disciplines ; ontology, ethics, episte- mology, etc. It is with one of the special philosophical disciplines — psychology — that we are here concerned. Every one knows in a rough way what it is that psy- chology deals with. It treats of * mind ' and ' conscious- ness,' and of the laws of mind and consciousness. My ' mind ' is that in me which thinks, understands, reasons, chooses, directs my actions. And my ' consciousness ' is my inner knowledge of my thought and action : I am ' conscious ' of the awkwardness of my movements, or of the correctness of my answer to an examination question. In these senses, the words ' mind ' and * consciousness ' are familiar to all of us. Now it is quite true that psychology deals with mind and consciousness, and with their laws. But it often happens that the scientific use of words is different from their popular or ordinary use. Thus the word ' law ' means, in everyday language, an ordinance or regulation imposed by authority ; whereas, in the language of natural science, it means simply a regularity or unbroken uni- formity of natural events. It should not be surprising, then, that the ' mind ' and ' consciousness ' of psycho- logical science differ a little in their meanings from the ' mind ' and ' consciousness ' of our daily conversation. We shall see, later on, that the current usage of the words is metaphysical as well as psychological. It will, perhaps, be easiest for us to get rid of our pre- conceived opinions as to the meanings of these familiar terms, if we have before us, from the very outset, a scientific definition of psychology, and postpone for the present our discussion of * mind ' and * consciousness ' in their technical psychological senses. Psychology may be § 2. The Definition of Psychology 5 defined as the science of mental processes. Each of the three terms included in the definition requires a brief explanation. A process is any object of scientific knowledge which is not a * thing.' A 'thing' is permanent, relatively un- changing, definitely marked off from other things. A process is, by etymology, a 'moving forward.' It is a be- coining something, — a continuous operation, a progressive change, which the scientific observer can trace throughout its course. It melts into and blends with operations and changes which follow and precede it. Thus the chemist speaks of the 'process of decomposition.' The changes which constitute decomposition are the ' process ' ; the final products of decomposition are * things.' The wear- ing away of a cliff by the action of water is a process ; the rock itself is a thing. The thing ' is,' here or there ; the process 'takes place.' — Psychology deals always with processes, and never with things. A mental process is any process, falling within the range of our experience, in the origination and continu- ance of which we are ourselves necessarily concerned. Heat is a process. But heat, regarded simply as a ' mode of motion,' is independent of us ; the movement continues, whether or not we are present to sense the heat. When, however, heat falls within our sensible ex- perience, we, the experiencing individuals, have something to say to it ; it is what it is, in part at any rate, because of ns. The (physical) movement is translated by us into the (psychological) sensation of heat. More than that : if we are cold, to start with, the same physical heat will seem hotter to us than it would have done, had we been warm. This heat process, theUj, is a mental process. Qr 6 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology again : the space of geometry is independent of us. It has its laws, which hold good whether we know them or not. But space may be a matter of our experience, and may be modified by our experience. '' I had such pleas- ant thoughts," we may say, **that the road seemed much shorter than usual." TJiis space is a mental process. — Psychology deals with none but mental processes. A science is a sum of knowledge which has been classi- fied and arranged under certain general rules and com- prehensive laws ; it is coherent and unified knowledge. We may know, from our boyish discoveries, that the eggs of some gulls and some plovers are speckled with green and brown ; but this knowledge is not scientific. It becomes scientific when we include it in the know- ledge that the speckling is characteristic of the eggs of the Laridae and Charadriidae ; and when we use it to link these two groups together, in making out the inter-re- lations and lines of descent of the different bird forms. — Psychology is not a string of unconnected observations, but a science. (i) Objection may be taken to the statement that the subject- matter of psychology consists exclusively of processes. All the text-books of psychology, it may be said, treat of ideas. But ideas are stable, permanent * things.' I remember now the large chestnut tree that overshadowed my home ; I have an idea of the tree. The idea is clear-cut, separate from other ideas which it may call up, — the ideas of the house, of my room in the house, etc. Does not its permanence, and its independence of other ideas, make it a * thing ' ? A close examination of the idea or mental picture of the tree shows us that the objection is not well founded. The idea of the tree is complex, containing a number of colours, a number of lights and shades, a number of forms. These constituents receive § 2. TJie Definition of PsycJioIogy 7 varying emphasis during the time of our attention to the idea. Now the form of the tree is uppermost in our mind, now its shadow, now the stickiness of its buds, now some incident con- nected with it, — the crashing down of a snow-laden branch, or what not. The idea changes. Again : the idea of the tree differs according to the different backgrounds of thought upon which it appears. It may be suggested to us by the pain of a bruise, by a patch of colours in a strange landscape, by the sough of the wind on a stormy night, etc. It is not the same in these different cases : it melts to some extent into its mental background, and is continually shifting and moving upon the background. Yet again : the idea of the tree need not always be a mental picture, a visual idea. It may contain the ideas of words, spoken or heard ; certain scents, of spring or autumn ; certain remem- brances of movement or pressure or resistance. All these factors come and go, change places and vary in importance, as the idea passes through the mind. The idea is not a thing : it does not stand, like the rock ; it takes place or goes on, like the action of the waves upon the rock. It is a process. Still, it is always the idea of a tree. Yes : just as the process of decomposition can always be called ' decomposition.' The name is permanent and unchanging ; but the name is only one factor out of the whole number which make up the actual mental experience. (2) It is impossible to give at the outset a complete list even of the typical forms of mental processes. Every item of our ' inner ' experience — every idea, desire, resolve, emotion, impulse, train of thought, action — is a mental process or a complex of mental processes. (3) That psychology is a science can best be shown by an illus- tration. Suppose that you are requested to draw upon a piece of paper a circle of the apparent size of the full moon. The words ' draw the circle ' arouse a number of ideas in your mind : you think of various occasions when you have seen the moon, you look to see whether the pencil is properly sharpened, etc. When ideas are connected together in this way, each growing out of some one that has preceded it, we speak of a successive association of ideas. But there is another set of mental processes involved : those 8 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology aroused by the gripping of the pencil and its movement over the surface of the paper. When an association of ideas ends with the idea of bodily movement, and this is followed by the sensa- tions which accompany movement, we speak of the total experi- ence as an action. The request to draw the circle, then, may be looked upon as a problem in the psychology of action. When we set to work to analyse this particular action, we find that the circle which we draw is the final result of a very large number of tendencies within us and conditions outside of us. Simple as the request is, each one of us understands it in his own way ; and easy as it is to draw a circle, the reasons which lead to this drawing are different from those which lead to all the others. Thus one of us may draw ' from memory,' while another has to * imagine ' how the moon looks. And drawing from memory may be of two kinds : the memory may be visual memory, a remem- brance of the moon as she appears in the sky, or verbal memory, a remembrance of a statement, somewhere heard or seen, that the moon ' looks as large as a penny,' or '■ as large as a dinner plate.' Again : individuals differ in the amount of practice which they have had in ' drawing from memory,' — i.e., in the translation of an idea (the remembered moon) into the movements of hand and arm necessary to reproduce this idea upon paper. Again : the attention may vary, and vary in two ways, during the drawing. It may vary in steadiness, in ' concentration ' : the agent may be very attentive to the action, alternately attentive and inattentive, or quite inattentive. It may also vary in direction, while the agent wonders whether the size of the circle is the important thing, and neatness may be neglected, or whether the figure drawn must be an exact geometrical circle ; or speculates as to ' what will be done with * the drawings after they are made. Memory, practice and attention are only some of the subjec- tive factors in the action, factors which may differ in different cases because of differences of internal tendency. We have said nothing at all of a long list of objective factors, due to conditions outside of us. But our analysis, imperfect as it is, is sufficiently complete to indicate two points : that the drawing is, as was stated just now, the final result of a large number of influences ; and § 3- Mental Process, Conscioitsness and Mind 9 that these influences — whether they are those of mner tendency or of external condition — can be classified and arranged, can be separately investigated by the psychologist, and can have their due weight assigned them in particular instances. The possibility of analysis and classification shows that psychology may justly lay claim to rank as a science. § 3. Mental Process, Consciousness and Mind. — Psychol- ogy is sometimes defined, technically as well as popularly, as the ' science of mind.' The psychologist can accept this definition, side by side with that just given, if ' mind ' is understood to mean simply the sum total of mental pro- cesses experienced by the individual during his lifetime. Ideas, feelings, impulses, etc., are mental processes ; the whole number of ideas, feelings, impulses, etc., experi- enced by me during my life constitutes my * mind.' Mind, as used in everyday conversation, means much more than this : it means something ' immaterial ' or ' spiritual ,' which shows itself in ideas and feelings, but is really more than those ideas and feelings, — it means a some- thing which ' lies behind ' the particular manifestations of our mental life, just as the thing (table, e.g.^ seems to lie behind the attributes of the thing (the roundness or squareness, size, height, etc., of the particular table). Looked at in this way, however, the term * mind ' takes on metaphysical implications, and therefore has no place in psychology. The question : Is there anything behind the mental process, any permanent mind .'* and if there is, what is its nature .'' — is a question which has often been asked, and which it is well worth while to try to answer. But it is not a question which can be raised by psychology. Psychology sees in mind nothing more than the whole sum of mental processes experienced in a single lifetime. 10 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology There is, however, a great difference between the men- tal processes of childhood, vigorous manhood and old age. When we speak of ' psychology,' without any qualifying adjective, we are usually thinking of the psychology of the average human being who has passed beyond child- hood, but has not yet become enfeebled by age. Mind, then, as ordinarily regarded by the psychologist, is the sum total of mental processes experienced during this middle |^ stage of life. No definite statement can be made as to the age at which the mind of the child passes over into li'rth — =*== — ' r— **=^=^ €hath Fig, I. — Mind, represented as the sum total of mental processes experienced by the individual. (For the form of the Fig., cf. § 35; for processes anterior to birth, cf. § 63.) that of the adult, or that at which the adult mind becomes senile. - It is clear that mind lasts longer than any single men- tal process ; it is a sum or series of mental processes. It must be noted further that the processes which make up mind do not occur one by one ; our mental experi- ence, even in moments of extreme preoccupation or con- centration, is complex. As you read this page, your mind is composed of a large number of processes : the sense of the printed page ; satisfaction or dissatisfaction with that sense ; pressures from your clothing, chair, etc. ; internal sensations and feelings which make up your bodily comfort or discomfort, which inform you of the position of your limbs, etc. ; probably a medley of sounds § 3- Mental Process^ Consciousness and Mind 1 1 from neighbouring rooms or from the street, and so on. Just as life consists of a sum of simultaneous processes, — secretion and excretion, decomposition and recomposition, — so mind is a stream of processes, more or less numer- ous, which run their course in time together. My * consciousness ' is the sum of mental processes which make up my experience noiv ; it is the mind of any given ' present ' time. We might, perhaps, consider it as a cross-section of mind. This section may be either arti- ficial or natural. We may deliberately cut across mind, in order to investigate it for psychological purposes. We have then interfered with the natural succession of our mental processes. On the other hand, mind falls of itself into a series of consciousnesses, each separate conscious- ness being dominated by some particular group of pro- cesses. We enter a scientific lecture room with a science- consciousness ; we leave it with a dinner-consciousness ; we lay down the day's work with a rest-consciousness. These are natural divisions of mind ; they are not so complete and radical as those artificially distinguished, but they are sufficiently independent of one another for us to recognise their existence in our everyday experience. The artificial consciousness lasts, as a rule, only for an instant. We make our section of mind, glance at the pro- cesses in which we are interested, and then move on at once to a new consciousness. The natural consciousness varies in duration from a few seconds to several hours or even days. If a gun is fired unexpectedly outside the win- dow of a room in which I am reading an interesting novel, I have a momentary sound-consciousness, which immedi- ately relapses into the story-consciousness. But if I am anticipating a great joy or sorrow, the group of processes 12 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology which constitutes the special joy-consciousness or sorrow- consciousness may persist for some length of time. The natural consciousness, indeed, differs precisely as the time which we speak of as * the present time ' differs. It is * now ' for the whole hour that we spend in the den- tist's chair, or for the whole afternoon that we devote to the reading of a new book. For the runner who is await- ing the signal to start, it is * now ' only for two or three seconds. Each of these * now's ' in mental experience is a natural consciousness. Most analogies and comparisons are in some respects mislead- ing ; and our comparison of consciousness to a cross-section of mind is no exception to the rule. A cross-section of a group of processes will show (i) cut ends (cross-sections of processes act- ually cut through), and (2) ' tails ' of processes which are just dis- appearing. Now when we examine an artificial consciousness, we never look at cut ends. The ' looking at ' a process, while it is running its course, alters the process, — and so defeats its own object (§ 9). The only processes which the psychologist can usefully observe are those which are just vanishing at the moment when the cross-section is taken. § 4. The Problem of Psychology. — The aim of the psy- chologist is threefold. He seeks (i) to analyse concrete (actual) mental experience into its simplest components, (2) to discover how these elements combine, what are the laws which govern thgir combination, and (3) to bring them into connection with their physiological (bodily) conditions. (i) We saw above that all science begins with analysis. The original material of science is complex ; science itself introduces order into chaos by reducing the complex to its elements, by tracing the proportion of identical elements § 4- 'I'he Problem of Psychology 13 in different complexes, and by determining (where that is possible) the relations of the elements to one another. Psychology is no exception to the rule. Our concrete mental experience, the experience of 'real life,' is always complex. However small a fragment we may seize upon, — a single wish, a single idea, a single resolution, — we find invariably that close inspection of it will reveal its complexity, will show that it is composed of a number of more rudimentary processes. The first object of the psy- chologist, therefore, is to ascertain the nature and number of the mental elements. He takes up mental experience, bit by bit, dividing and subdividing, until the division can go no further. When that point is reached, he has found a conscious element. The mental or conscious elements are those mental processes which cannot be further analysed, which are absolutely simple in nature, and which consequently cannot be reduced, even in part, to other processes. The special reasons which lead the psychol- ogist to look upon various special processes as elements will be discussed in their places, in following chapters. We have already seen that an ' idea ' is a complex process. We may here illustrate the complexity of concrete mental experi- ences by examining an experience of a different order, — say, an emotion. The emotion of anger seems, at first sight, to be a single experience ; it has a single name. Really, it is highly com- plex. It contains, e.g., the idea of the person with whom one is angry; the idea of the act of his, at which one is displeased; the idea of a retahatory action on one's own part; a mass of bodily sensations, attending the flushing of one's face, the tendency to clench the fist, the bracing of the whole muscular system, — one 'feels stronger' when angry. It begins with a feeling of dis- pleasure, of pained surprise or wounded pride ; but this soon gives way to the pleasantness of anger itself, the delight in the idea of retaliation and in the fact that one is strong enough to 14 TJie Meaning a7id Problem of Psychology retaliate, — a delight that has come down to civilised man from his primitive ancestors, and that shows itself continually in the actions of the child. These processes — themselves by no means simple — all take part, crossing and recrossing, shifting and recom- bining, in the emotion. They need not all be present together in the angry consciousness of a given moment ; but all have their share in the experience of anger. (2) Analysis needs to be tested in two ways. We must always ask, with regard to it : Has it gone as far as it can go } and : Has it taken account of all the elements which are contained in the experience } To answer the first question, the analysis must be repeated : analysis is its own test. When one psychologist says that a process is elemental, other psychologists repeat his analysis for them- selves, trying to carry it further than he could do. If they stop short where he did, he was right ; if they find his ' simple ' process to be complex, he was wrong. As regards the second question, on the other hand, the test of analysis is syjithesis. When we have analysed a complex into the elements a^ b^ r, we test our analysis by trying to put it together again, to get it back from a, b and c. If the complexcan be thus restored, the analysis is correct; but if the combination of a, b and c does not give us back the original complex, the analyst has failed to discover some one or more of its ingredients. Hence the psy- chologist, when he has analysed consciousness, must put together the results of his analysis, must synthetise, and compare his reconstruction of mental experience with the experience as originally given. If the two tally, his work on that mental experience is done, and he can pass on to another ; if not, he must repeat his analysis, watching con- stantly for the factors which he had previously missed. § 4- The Ptvblem of Psychology 15 If the conscious elements were 'things,' the task of reconstruction of an experience would not be difficult. We should put the simple bits of mind together, as the bits of wood are put together in a child's puzzle-map or kindergarten cube. But the conscious elements are * pro- cesses ' : they do not fit together, side to side and angle to angle ; they flow together, mix together, overlapping, rein- forcing, modifying or arresting one another, in obedience to certain psychological laws. The psychologist must, therefore, in the second place, seek to ascertain the laivs which govern the connection of the mental elements. Knowledge of these laws renders the synthesis of ele- ments into a concrete experience possible, and is of assist- ance also in subsequent analysis. When we try for the first time to analyse anger, we may very easily overlook the fourth factor mentioned above, — the mass of sensations accompanying the flush of anger, the doubling of the fist, etc. We discover that we have omitted something, however, as soon as ever we put together the ingredients which we have noticed, and ask if they actually make up the experience of anger, and if they exhaust all that we ' feel ' when we are angry. Some- thiftg is still lacking. This discovery shows us that the processes which our analysis has brought to light must somehow have ob- scured certain other processes, connected with them in the actual emotion. We have now, therefore, to repeat our analysis, keep- ing a sharp lookout for the missing processes : we shall do well to try to analyse some other emotions, since the processes which are obscure in anger may, perhaps, come to the front in them. After many trials we find what the lacking something is ; and our syn- thesis is satisfactory. At this stage we note carefully the manner in which the items which we missed at first are connected with the other processes in anger, — we seek to determine how they could have been obscured so completely by the other processes. And having made a large number of similar notes, and compared 1 6 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology them methodically, we are finally able to write out a law of mental combination or connection. When we have our law, we can apply it in difficult cases as they occur, and so gain help in our later analyses. (3) Every mental process is connected with a bodily process ; we do not know anything of mind apart from body. Mind and body, that is, always go together in our experience. And ordinary observation will convince us that body influences mind in various ways. Consciousness when the eyes are closed is different from consciousness when the eyes are open ; if the bodily state varies, the mental state varies also ; the dropping of the eyelids pre- vents the ether waves from gaining access to the sensitive parts of the eyes, and with this physical fact go the men- tal facts of the sensation of darkness, the ' feeling ' of bodily unsteadiness and uncertainty, etc. The mind of a man who has been blind from his birth is essentially dif- ferent from the mind of one endowed with normal vision. Where the latter sees, the former hears and touches : I see my path, but the blind man hears and 'feels ' his way. Even the highest and most abstract processes of thought give evidence of the close connection of mind with body. We cannot think, unless we have ideas in which to think ; and ideas are built up from impressions received through bodily sense-organs. Thus most of us remember, imagine, dream, and think in terms of sight. When we remember an event, we see it occurring ' in our mind's eye ' ; when we ' imagine ' an experience, we have a mental ' image ' of it, we seem to see it take place ; when we dream, we ordinarily see ourselves or our friends engaged in this action or in that ; and when we think, we often see the words in which we are thinking, as if they were printed or § § 4, 5 • ^^^^ Problem and Subdivisions of Psychology 1 7 written on an imagined page. Psychology is not com- plete, then, until we have brought the results of our analy- sis of mental experience, the mental elements, into con- nection with the bodily strnctnres and functions which condition them. Put in another way, the problem of psychology may be said to consist in the description and explanation of mental pro- cesses. Exact description implies analysis and synthesis ; you cannot describe accurately unless you have taken the object of your description to pieces, observed it in all its parts, and then replaced the parts and reconstructed the whole. When we have described, we can go on to explain, to state the circumstances under which the process takes place. Explanation is always that : the statement of the circumstances or conditions under which the described phenomenon occurs. The conditions of mental pro- cesses are partly mental and partly bodily : the laws of mental connection, on the one hand, and the laws (functions) of certain bodily structures on the other. The psychologist has to pull mental experience to pieces, — to put it together again, — and to note what happens to the partic- ular processes involved, and what goes on in the body while the experience is in progress. This is the ' problem ' of psychology. § 5. The Subdivisions of Psychology. — The psychology which we defined in § 2 may be termed general psychol- ogy. It includes many special branches of psychological enquiry with which we shall not be directly concerned in this book. The psychology of which we shall treat is nor- mal, adult, human, individual, psychology. (i) Human psychology confines itself to the human consciousness, and is thus distinguished from animal psy- chology^ which describes and seeks to explain the mental processes of the lower animals. Human and animal psy- chology are included together under the single name com- 1 8 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology parative psychology. The comparative psychologist uses the results of his study of the animal mind to throw light upon the mental processes of man, by comparison of each body of observed facts with the other. (2) Individual psychology leaves out of account the material dealt with by social psychology. The social psy- chologist examines the mental experience of groups of individuals (societies), as manifested in their myths, lan- guage, customs, etc. Mythology is, as it were, a collection of fossil beliefs, all of which were once living processes in the minds of individuals. Language, again, may be called fossil thought. ' Blue ' is the colour of the ' blow- ing' wind; 'green' the colour of 'growing' vegetation. A knowledge of these and similar relations between words helps us to understand how our ancestors thought. In the same way, custom is very often a fossil expression of some emotion or sentiment ; our customary greetings and salutations, e.g., are expressions of the sentiment of rev- erence. The study of the social psychology of primitive or savage races is termed anthropological psychology. (3) We distinguish adult psychology from child psychol- ogy, which discusses the working of the child's mind at different stages of its development, and the way in which it passes over into the adult mind. The study of the child and animal minds is sometimes termed the study of psychogenesis (mind-growth). (4) Normal psychology takes no account of the facts of mental patJiology. Mental pathology deals with all that is irregular or unusual in the human consciousness : with the various forms of mental derangement (insanity), with the temporary lapse of consciousness in sleep and the changes which it undergoes in dreaming, with the hyp- § 5- The Subdivisions of Psychology 19 notic consciousness (the phenomena of suggestion), and with the senile mind (gradual loss of memory with ad- vancing age, etc.). This long list of excluded branches of psychological enquiry may lead the reader to suppose that our own psychology is but a small, and perhaps not the most important part of general psychology. The supposition would be incorrect. Animal psy- chology is still in its infancy ; child psychology is hardly farther advanced (cf. the following Section) ; while social psychology is not much more than a programme for the future. Mental pathol- ogy has made better progress : and we shall appeal to it for illustration, wherever its discoveries help us to understand the workings of the normal mind. Our references to animal, child and social psychology will necessarily be less numerous : there are fewer established facts for us to refer to. Other words or phrases which may usefully be defined here are * experimental psychology,' 'physiological psychol- ogy,' and *psychophysics.' (i) Experimental psychology insists that the psychological method of introspection (§9) shall be employed under ' experimental ' conditions ; that is, under conditions which reduce the possibility of mis- takes to a minimum, and which enable one enquirer to test or check the work of another by exactly repeating it for himself (see §§9, 10). It is the psychology of which we shall treat in the present work. It is some- times called * modern ' psychology, or * the new ' psychol- ogy, to distinguish it from the merely ' descriptive ' psy- chology which was current before experiment had been applied to mental processes. (2) Physiological psychology is both wider and narrower than experimental psychology. It is wider, in that it demands a detailed knowledge of certain parts of physiology (the physiology of the central 20 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology nervous system and of the sense-organs attached to it); and it is narrower, in that it employs no methods of inves- tigation except those which are followed in the physio- logical laboratory. ' Psychophysiology ' covers the same ground as physiological psychology, but (as the name im- plies) lays more stress upon the physiological aspect of its subject-matter than upon the psychological. (3) Psy- chophysics is the science of the relation of mind to body. It lays precisely equal weight upon the mental process and the bodily process connected with it. The psycho- physicist desires to know exactly how mind is related to body, and body to mind. He gets his facts or data both from the psychologist (number and nature of the mental elements, laws of mental connection) and the anatomist and physiologist (structure and function of the various parts and organs of the body). His aim is to bring the two sets of facts, the mental and bodily, into connection with each other ; to discover the lazvs of the connection. It will be seen that the problem of psychophysics is identical with the last of the three special enquiries which make up the problem of psychology. The psychologist can borrow facts from the psychophysicist, therefore, as well as the psychophysicist from the psychologist. But though the problem may be identical in the two cases, the standpoint of the enquirers is different. The psy- chophysicist examines the relation of mind to body for its own sake : when he knows the relation, his work is over. The psy- chologist examines the relation from the side of mind, and uses it to assist him in his explanation of mental phenomena. In just the same way, the problem of psychophysics is part of the problem of physiology. The standpoint differs again, how- ever : the physiologist looks at the relation between body and mind from the side of body, and uses it to assist him in his ex- planation of the phenomena of life. To the psychophysicist, § 6. External Aids to Psychology 21 knowledge of the relation is an end ; to the physiologist, as to the psychologist, it is only a meafts to an end. § 6. External Aids to Psychology. — The two last Sec- tions will have made it clear that psychology in the narrower sense is closely connected with certain other sciences, and may hope to derive assistance from them in its attempt to describe and explain the facts of our mental life. The sciences to which we shall most nat- urally appeal for help are those of psychogenesis, mental pathology and physiology. (i) Darwin's work has made every one familiar with the idea of evolution or development, and has taught us that we do not thoroughly understand anything until we have found out how it ' grew,' i.e., how it came to be what it now is. The composite plant and the highly organised animal have developed out of simpler forms of life, and biological science seeks to determine the conditions under which the growth or development took place. Man is no exception to the rule : and we must accordingly suppose that the human mind has developed out of a simpler form of mind. There are two forms of normal mind which are simpler than our own : the healthy animal mind and the healthy child mind. Careful study of psychogenesis in these two cases may be expected some day to clear up many difficult points in adult human psychology, by showing us how processes, now highly complex, began in a simple way, and have gradually grown to be what they are. At present, however, for reasons which cannot be stated here, but little has been done towards the investigation of the child and animal consciousness, and the results obtained are fragmentary and not very securely established. 22 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology The value of comparative study to the psychologist may be shown by an instance taken from the psychology of action. When we are angry, grieved, etc., — emotionally 'moved,' — we express our emotion by certain bodily movements, known technically as * expressive movements.' Many of these movements are unintel- ligible until viewed in the light of mental history, of psychogenesis. Thus the face of proud contempt, "curving a contumelious lip," is only the human copy of the snarl of the dog or wolf. There seems to be no reason why we should curl our upper lip to express scorn ; but there is good reason why the animal should do so, — the upward curl lays bare the sharp ' canine ' teeth, and is there- fore a preparation for actual attack of the enemy. In this case, then, as in many others, the human expressive movement is a sur- vival, in weakened form, of an association (§2) which originally served a definite and important purpose in mental Hfe. (2) Mental pathology has proved more useful than psychogenesis to the normal psychologist. Just as the study of bodily disease helps us to understand what health is, and to take measures for the preservation of health, so the study of mental lack or mental derange- ment brings to light both the nature and the importance of certain normal processes. *' Prevention is better than cure." But prevention is only possible after a long series of particular cures has been performed. The different diseases show us what conditions are favourable to health, and what are un- favourable ; and we learn to avoid over-eating, cold draughts, etc. In other words, the different diseases help us to analyse health into a number of factors : good digestion, uniform temperature, moderate exercise. In just the same way, the occurrence of various forms of mental disease helps us to analyse the normal conscious- ness ; we see what kinds of processes are grouped to- § 6. External Aids to Psychology 23 gether, and what processes are relatively independent ; and we may have factors brought under our notice which would have escaped us altogether in the normal mind, because masked or obscured by the presence of other processes. As the first business of the psycholo- gist is analysis, this assistance from mental pathology is very important. Again : it is often said that one does not realise the blessing of health unless one has recently recovered from an illness. Health is appreciated by contrast with ill- health. So in psychology : when we contrast the normal consciousness with the abnormal, we are better able to ap- preciate what the normal consciousness z>, and to under- stand its mechanism or working. A case of blind-deaf-mutism, like that of Laura Bridgman,^ is, so to speak, a psychological experiment made for us by Nature herself. When we observe how a mind works, which lacks the perceptions of sight and hearing, and the sensations accompanying the movements of speech, we can estimate the place which these sensations and perceptions occupy in our own conscious life ; and the makeshifts of the defective mind, the various ways in which the processes remaining to compose it are made to do double or triple duty, give us welcome hints as to the hidden resources and obscurer functions of our own fuller and richer consciousness. Or again : suppose that a man, bhnd from his birth, is rendered able 1 Laura Dewey Bridgman was born in 1829 at Hanover, New Hampshire, and died in 1889, ^t the Perkins Institution for the BHnd, Boston, Massachu- setts. An attack of scarlet fever at the age of two years deprived her of hear- ing and of the sight of her left eye, while it greatly impaired the senses of smell and taste. Speech was lost with the loss of hearing ; and the sight of the right eye disappeared entirely six years after the illness. A special system of education was devised for Laura Bridgman, and ex- tended from 1837 to 1850. From the reports of her mental development during this period, and from examinations of her capacities made at a later date, much valuable psychological information has been obtained. 24 The Meaning and Problem of Psychology to see by a surgical operation. He must learn to use his eyes, as a child learns to walk. And the gradual perfecting of his vision, the mistakes and confusions to which he is liable, all the details of his visual education, form a storehouse of facts upon which the psychologist can draw, when he seeks to illustrate the develop- ment of the perception of space in the normal mind, — the manner in which we come to judge of the distance of objects from one another, of their direction, and of their size and shape. Once more : those forms of mental unsoundness which consist in the decay or derangement of a single group of processes are of great use to the psychologist. They show him how the mind works without that particular group, or how it works when the group occupies too large and prominent a place in the field of consciousness ; and thus enable him to trace its normal function in the healthy mind. What is called ' agoraphobia ' — a morbid fear of being alone in open spaces, of crossing a street, etc. — is only an exaggerated form of an experience which most of us have had, the experience of ' losing our head,' when we pass suddenly from a quiet country Hfe to the bustle of a large town ; and the study of this experience ' writ large ' in agoraphobia will help us to understand it as printed small and stamped lightly upon our own consciousness. So the exaggerated self-importance of paranoia throws light upon the state of mind which we describe by saying that we were ' self- conscious ' upon some social or public occasion. (3) The third science to mention is physiology. The reader need only be reminded that one of the aims of the psychologist is to bring the simplest mental processes into connection with the bodily processes which they accompany. It is clear that he cannot accomplish this task, unless he have some knowledge of the different bodily organs, of the way in which they work together for various purposes, and of the part they play in the life of the whole organism. Illustrations of the way in which physiology can aid psychology will be found throughout the following chapters of this book. One instance may suffice here. § 6. External Aids to Psychology 25 The psychological investigation of feeling (pleasantness and unpleasantness) is very difficult. Fortunately, every feeling has various bodily manifestations, in breathing, play of feature, etc., so that we can follow the course of a pleasure or disagreeableness by noting its physiological symptoms. Now it has been found that the bodily manifestations of the 'higher' feelings — joy, the pleasure of success, the pleasure of the performance of a duty ; or shame, scorn, the dissatisfaction which follows failure — are the same as the bodily manifestations of the Mower' feelings, — the pleasure of a good meal, or the unpleasantness of bodily pain. Here is welcome confirmation of the conclusion reached, but reached with great difficulty, by introspection : that the conscious processes of pleasantness and unpleasantness are the same, in whatever mental setting they occur, i.e., with whatever other mental processes they are connected. PART I CHAPTER II Sensation as a Conscious Element. The Method of investigating sensation § 7. The Definition of Sensation, — We have seen that 'thinking' cannot go on without ideas. When I am thinking about anything, my consciousness consists of a number of ideas, some running their course side by side, and others following these in obedience to the laws of association. We have seen also that we cannot have cer- tain ideas unless the body possesses certain organs ; 'mem- ory ' and ' imagination,' e.g., are very largely made up, for most of us, of visual ideas, — and these imply the existence of the eye. Ideas are always complex, made up of separate parts. Our way of using a single word to express them — though there are good reasons for it — is likely to mislead us upon this matter : it tempts us to think that they are simple and uniform in their nature. Hence it requires some effort and trouble to analyse an idea, even if (as is often the case) it owes its existence to the combined action of sev- eral sense-organs. But every idea can be resolved into elements, i.e., elemental /r^^^.fi'^^/ and these elements are termed sensations. My idea of a particular book is an idea derived from the co- operation of several bodily organs. It may include at any moment the look of the book (eye), the sound of its contents when read 26 § 7- The Definition of Sensation 27 aloud (ear), its weight (skin, etc.), and the scent of its cover (nose). Now let us leave out of account all the constituents of the idea except those which come from the eye. We have re- maining the red of the leather and gold of the lettering on the cover, and the black and white of the printed pages. Each of these quite simple components of the idea is a se?isation of sight. Or let us leave out of account all the constituents except those coming through the ear. We then have the sounds of a familiar voice, which we imagine to be speaking certain successions of words. Each word uttered has a particular pitch, is a particular musical tone ; while at the same time its consonants are heard as noises or auditory shocks. These quite simple processes — the simple tone and the simple noise — are sensatiojis of hearing. Or again : let us leave out of account all the components of the idea except the weight which we remember that the volume has when we hold it up. This weight includes a pressure on the skin of the hand, a pull or strain upon the tendons which hold the muscles of the arm to their bones, and a jamming together of the bones them- selves at wrist and elbow-joint. Each constituent — skin pressure, tendinous strain, articular (joint) pressure — is a quite simple process, which cannot be further analysed. We speak, therefore, oi sejisatio7is of pressure and of strain. We have now split up the apparently simple ' book ' into a large number of really simple sensations. The analysis was not easy, even though different bodily organs were concerned in the idea : it would be difficult to say, for instance, just what is due, in the idea of 'weight,' to joint, what to sinew, and what to skin. The analysis becomes very much more difficult when all the compo- nents of the idea come from the same sense-organ. Long prac- tice is required before one can analyse the note of a musical instrument into the separate simple tones which it contains. But the analysis is always possible. We may compare the sensation, the element of the idea, to the elements treated of in chemical science. The idea is a compound ; it consists of a number of elemental 28 Sensation as a Conscious Element processes, travelling side by side in consciousness : it therefore resembles the compound bodies analysed in the chemical laboratory. But the sensation resists analysis, just as do the chemical elements oxygen and hydrogen. It stands to the idea as oxygen and hydrogen stand to water. Whatever test we put it to, — however persistent our attempt at analysis and however refined our method of investigation, — we end where we began : the sensation remains precisely what it was before we attacked it. ' Cold,' ' blue,' * salt,' cannot be divided up into any simpler modes of experience. All sensations come to us from definite bodily organs: cold from the temperature organs in the skin, blue from the sensitive organs in the retina of the eye, salt from sensitive cells planted in the mucous membrane of the tongue. These ' peripheral ' organs — organs at the pe- riphery or on the surface of the body — are united, by nerve-fibres, to the supreme ' central ' organ, the brain. The peripheral organs of temperature are united to one group of cells in the cortex (the grey covering matter) of the hemispheres of the brain ; the retina of the eye to another ; the peripheral taste-cells to a third. The bodily process with which sensation is connected is, therefore, twofold : it consists of a stimulation of the peripheral organ, and a consequent excitation (carried inwards by nerve-fibres) of the central organ. Our definition of sensation must take account of its sim- plicity as a conscious process (first part of the problem of psychology : § 4) and of its bodily conditions (third part of the problem). It will run as follows: Sensations are those elemental conscious processes which are connected with bodily processes in definite bodily organs. §§ 7> S. The Definition and Attributes of Sensation 29 We cannot get any sensation until the peripheral organ has been stimulated. Those unfortunates who are born blind or deaf, who have no peripheral organs which can be stimulated, possess no sensations of sight or hearing at all. It is a mistake to suppose that they live in darkness and silence. To appreciate darkness and silence we must be able to see and hear ; darkness is a sen- sation of sight, and silence is in reality a very faint sensation of sound, — the sensation received from the pumping of blood through the arteries of the ear. Those born deaf or blind do not hear or see anything. But when the peripheral organ has been stimulated some few times, its stimulation ceases to be necessary to the production of a sensation. The central excitation (set up somehow within the brain) is enough. We can ' remember ' a yellow, when our eyes are shut ; we can ' imagine ' a cold draught, when our skin is thoroughly warm. The bodily processes connected with the remembered yellow and the imagined cold are central only, not peripheral: but the yellow and the cold, as mental processes, are none the less se7isations. " They are different from real sensations, however, — different from sensations set up by actual stimulation of the eye and skin," it may be said : " we know that they are only remembered or imagined, and not sensed." That is true : but the difference does not lie in the nature of the processes themselves. A remembered ' yellow ' and a seen ' yellow ' are just the same as sensations, as ' yellows.' If the remembered yellow seems to lack something of the seen yellow, that is only because its intensity is less, its out- line not so distinct, its conscious course more rapid. Really, how- ever, the ^ remembered yellow ' is a more complex process than the seen yellow : it is a yellow plus what we may call the memory- mark. So an imagined cold is a sensation of cold plus the imagi- nation-mark. The processes which make up these marks will be analysed later on (Ch. XI). § 8. The Attributes of Sensation. — Although the sensa- tion is an element of mind, that is, a process which can- not be split up into simpler processes, yet it has various 30 Sensation as a Conscious Element aspects or attributes — presents different sides, so to speak — each of which may be separately examined by the psy- chologist. Some sensations have four such aspects ; every sensation has at least three. The four are quality, inten- sity, extent and duration. The process is itself, and not some other process (quality) ; it is stronger or weaker than other sensations (intensity) ; it spreads over a certain por- tion of space, greater or less (extent) ; and it lasts a cer- tain, longer or shorter period of time (duration). Suppose that I have a tuning-fork, which gives the pitch of the concert a. I may strike it gently or roughly. In each case, the * tone ' remains the same, the quality is that of the musical a ; but the tone produced by the second blow is louder, more inten- sive, than that produced by the gentle tap. Again : I may let the tone ' run down ' or ' ring off,' or I may stop or ' damp ' it by laying my finger upon the vibrating prongs a second or two after I have struck the fork. The tone is still the same ; its duration differs. This tone sensation, then, possesses quality (the pitch of a musical « in a certain octave of the scale), intensity (loudness or softness) and duration (more or less time for the running its course in consciousness) . It has no extent, since sounds, though they come to us through space, do not fill space, and therefore cannot be compared as regards size. A bass note, though it may have more ^volume ' (as we say) than a treble note, is not larger than the treble note, in the sense in which the red quality of a peony is larger, more extended than the same quality in a rose. Had we taken as our illustration this sensation of colour from the eye, or a sensation of pressure upon the skin, we should have found the attribute of extent present in it. No point of coloured light is so small that it has no length or breadth : and no needle- prick is so fine that it does not affect some extent of skin. Extent is an invariable property of visual and cutaneous (skin) sensations. We may represent a four-attribute sensation in the form indicated by Fig. 2. It must be noted that all the aspects § 8. The Attributes of Sensation 31 (three or four) which a particular sensation can present are, as a matter of fact, always presented together in conscious- ness. If any one of them disappears, the whole sensation disappears with it. A tone which is of no duration, which does not last for any time at all, is not a tone ; and a point of light which has no extent cannot give rise to a sensation of sight, — it is just nothing. The quality of a sensation is the attribute which distin- guishes it from every other sensation. And it is quality which makes sensation an elemental conscious process. The fact that one process is stronger or weaker than an- other, lasts a longer or shorter time, is more or less extended, could never tell us whether it was itself sim- ple or complex. But every quality is radically different from every other quality: it always remains itself, through all changes of intensity and of time or space. An a in music may vary in loudness and in duration ; but it is still a, and therefore different from all the other tones, b, <:, etc. A blue may show itself as a flash or as a permanent illumination ; it may be a point or a broad colour surface : but its blueness differentiates it from all other visual sen- sations. Quality, that is, is the most important and funda- mental of the sensation attributes : it constitutes what we might call the core or kernel of the sensation, — though we must not allow the phrase to mislead us, by suggesting that the sensation is a compound process. We might ex- press the fact equally well, perhaps, by saying that sensation intensity is always the intensity of a certain quality ; sen- sation duration always the duration of a certain quality, etc. Quite complex processes may possess their own intensity, dura- tion and extent. Thus a note struck upon the piano, which com- 32 Sensation as a Conscious Element prises several sensations of simple tone, may be spoken of as ' loud ' or * soft ' ; the taste of a refreshing draught of lemonade may linger in the mouth for a longer or shorter time ; and the Sistine Madonna may be imagined as of any size, from that of the origi- nal painting to that of a small cabinet photograph. But no com- plex idea has a single quality. Even if it seems single to the untrained observer, — as the piano note may do, — it can be resolved by practice into its really simple elements (sensation qualities) . How it comes about that a complex process may have a ^ total ' intensity, duration, etc., distinct from the intensities and durations of the sensations composing it, will be explained later on (§§ 39, 43 ff.). § 9. The Method of investigating Sensation. — Every science has its own special material to deal with, and consequently its own special methods of working upon that material for the discovery of facts and laws. Physics and chemistry follow * physical ' and * chemical ' methods : and no progress can be made by the student in either sci- ence until he has learned the right way to work, i.e.^ has grasped the significance of method. The special method employed by psychology is that of introspection or self- observation. We ' look into ' the mind, each for himself ; or we observe ourselves, — in order to find out what pro- cesses are going on at the time, and how they are influ- encing one another. This ' looking into ' one's mind or observation of one's own mental processes must not be understood literally, however, as if consciousness were one thing, existing of itself, and the * I,' the observer, could stand apart and watch it from the outside. The * I,' the watching, and the conscious " phenomenon observed, are all alike con- scious processes; so that when *I observe myself,' all that § 9- The Method of Investigating Sensation 33 happens is that a new set of processes is introduced into the consciousness of the moment. But this introduction of new processes must, it would seem, bring about a change in the particular experience which one sets out to observe. And it is imperative to keep that experience unchanged : a method of observa- tion which involved an alteration of the facts to be ob- served would not be worth much. Direct introspection — observation of a process which is still running its course — is, as a matter of fact, entirely worthless ; it defeats its own object. Suppose, e.g., that I am absorbed in the enjoyment of a humor- ous story or a musical composition, and suddenly (remembering that I am interested in psychology) ask myself what my enjoy- ment is, and what mental processes go to make it up. I find myself baffled : the putting of the question has seriously altered my consciousness. I cannot enjoy and examine my enjoyment at one and the same time. Psychological introspection, however, does not consist in the effort to follow up a process during its course. The rule for introspection, in the sphere of sensation, is as follows : Be as attentive as possible to the object or process which gives rise to the sensation, and, luhen tJie object is retnove^d or tJie process completed, recall tJie sen- sation by an act of memory as vividly and completely as yon. can. The object or process which gives rise to a sensation is termed the stimnlns to that sensation. If we attend to the stimulus, the sensation becomes clearer, and has a more enduring place in consciousness than it would have gained in its own right. Hence we can best observe those sensations to whose stimuli we have been especially at- D 34 Sensation as a Conscious Element tentive. We avoid any interference with the workings of consciousness by postponing our observation of the process which we wish to examine until after it has run its full course, and the stimulus which occasioned it has ceased to affect us. We then call it back, look at it from all points of view, and dissect it. Introspective examina- tion must be 2. post mortem examination. A comparison may help to make the meaning of the rule clear. We may Hken the consciousness upon which the stimulus works to sealing-wax, and the stimulus itself to the signet stone impressed upon it. Attention prepares the mind for the reception of an impression, as the heating of the wax prepares it for the signet ; and the more attentive we are to the stimulus, the deeper is the impression which it makes upon us. The impression once made, the wax hardens : we can recall the sensation, scrutinise it, trace the course which it followed, etc., — just as we can hold up the hardened seal to the light, note the pattern, the flaws in the wax, etc., in a way which is impossible during the stage of softness, when the stone produces its greatest effect. But this introspection, it may well be said, cannot fur- nish very reliable results. The individual can apply the method to one consciousness only — his own ; and we all know how easy it is for a single observer to make mis- takes, and how necessary to have more witnesses than one, if a fact is to be securely established. There is no guarantee that other individuals would come to the same conclusion, from an examination of their consciousnesses ; and no means of comparing the conclusions reached by different individuals under similar circumstances. The first objection is unanswerable. But although we can never apply the introspective method to any conscious- ness except our own, we can arrange matters so that other § 9- The Method of Investigating Sensation 35 individuals may be brought forward as witnesses to the facts which we ourselves have observed. This end is attained by the employment of the method under experi- mental conditions. An experiment is a trial, test, or observation, carefully made under certain special conditions: the object of the conditions being (i) to render it possible for any one who will to repeat the test, in the exact manner in which it was first performed, and (2) to help the observer to rule out disturbing influences during his observation, and so to get at the desired result in a pnre form. If we say precisely how we have worked, other investigators can go through the same processes, and judge whether our conclusion is right or wrong ; and if we do the work in a fitting place, with fitting instruments, without hurry or interruption, guarding against any influence which is foreign to the matter in hand, and which might conceivably alter our observation, we may be sure of obtaining 'pure' results, results which follow directly from the conditions laid down by us, and are not due to the operation of any unforeseen or unregulated causes. Experiment thus secures accuracy of observation, and the connection of every result with its own conditions ; while it enables observers in all parts of the world to work together upon one and the same psycho- logical problem. The psychological experiment does not differ in any essential respect from the experiments of the other sciences, — physics, physiology, etc. There is always the one difference already mentioned : while a newly discov- ered insect or a rare mineral can be packed in a box, and sent by one investigator to another in a distant country, the psychologist can never put his consciousness in any 36 Sensation as a Conscious Element similar way at the disposal of his fellow-psychologist. But the difference is a minor difference : it does not ex- tend to the nature and function of the experiment itself, — it does not impair the accuracy of psychological results or prevent community of psychological investigation. The rule of experimental introspection, in the sphere of sensation, runs as follows : Have yourself placed under such conditions that there is as little likelihood as possible of ex- ternal interference with the test to be made. Attend to the stimulus, and, ivhen it is removed, recall the sensation by an act of memory. Give a verbal account of the processes constituting your consciousness of the stimidus. The ac- count must be written down by the assistant, who has arranged for you the conditions under which the test is to be made. His description of the conditions, and your description of the experience, furnish data from which other psychologists can work. In whichever form it is employed, the introspective method demands the exercise of memory. Care must therefore be taken to work with memory at its best : the interval of time which elapses between experience and the account of experience must not be so short that memory has not time to recover the experi- ence, or so long that the experience has become faded and blurred. In its experimental form, introspection demands further an exact use of language. The terms chosen to describe the experience must be definite, sharp, and concrete. The conscious process is like a fresco, painted in great sweeps of colour and with all sorts of intermediary and mediating lights and shades : words are little blocks of stone, to be used in the composition of a mosaic. If we are required to represent the fresco by a mosaic, we must see to it that our blocks be of small size and of every obtainable tint and hue. Otherwise, our representation will not come very near to the original. § lO. Rides for Introspection of Sensation ^'j Introspection is the sole method by which we can in- vestigate the facts and laws of sensation. It may be used wrongly, as when we try to observe a sensation during its progress ; it may be used imperfectly, as when we employ it under varying conditions, or give an incomplete account of our experience, or work at a time when the memory is fatigued ; and it may be used rightly, under experimental conditions and safeguards. But, however we use it, it is the sole method which we can follow. When we pass from the first and second parts to the third part of the problem of psychology (§ 4), — when we ask, not what are the facts and laws of sensation as revealed by introspection, but what are the bodily processes which accompany sensation pro- cesses, — we must, of course, accept the account of the body and its workings which is offered by physiologists and biologists, and which has been obtained by the use of the methods pecuhar to physiology and biology. The union of physiological and psycho- logical methods for psychophysical purposes has led to the formu- lation of a number of ' psychophysical methods.' Since we, as psychologists, are using psychophysics only as means to an end, as an aid to our understanding of mind, it is unnecessary for us to give a full and detailed statement of psychophysical methods in this book. Many of them will be briefly indicated in the Sections in which we enquire into the bodily concomitants of the elemental conscious processes. § 10. General Rules for the Introspection of Sensation. — The ' experimental conditions ' which are necessary to render the results of introspection scientifically valuable will, of course, differ in the case of different sensations. The rules which apply in the sense of sight do not hold, without modification, in that of hearing. But there are certain conditions which must always be regarded, in whatever department of sensation we are working : or, to 38 Sensation as a Conscious Element put the matter from the other side, there are certain errors to which we are always hable, and which we must con- stantly guard against (i) When we introspect, we must be absolutely im- partial and unprejudiced. We must not let ourselves be biassed by any preconceived idea. We are likely to think that, in all probability, a certain thing will happen, or we may actually want to obtain a given result, to confirm some view which we have already formed. In either case, we are in danger of mistaken observation. We ought to be ready to take the facts precisely as they are. Impartiality is a necessary condition of all scientific observation. We observe because we are interested in the result of our observa- tion : some chance occurrence has suggested to us an explanation of particular events, and we are interested to discover, by system- atic enquiry, whether the explanation is correct. The trained observer, psychologist or physicist or what not, can take the sug- gestion for what it is worth ; he does not allow it to affect his observation. But the beginner is exceedingly liable to be led by interest into partiality ; and so to see, not what really happens,, but what he desires or expects to see happen. Impartiality in psychological investigations, however, is pecul- iarly difficult. In most sciences, the danger of partiality begins after a few accidental observations have suggested a certain view. In the case of (i) animal and child psychology, the bias may exist before any observation has been made at all, and all obser- vations, from the very first, be vitiated by it. Mother and nurse find intelligence in the baby when the disinterested observer can see nothing out of the common ; and lovers of animals tell wonder- ful tales of the intelligence of their special pets. In the case of (2) adult human psychology, bias may also be prior to any obser- vation. A certain resoluteness and evenness of disposition, a moral steadiness and balance, are required of the introspective psychol- ogist. It is not only that " what ardently we wish we soon be- § 10. Rides for Introspection of Sensation 39 lieve " : the chemist runs that danger equally with the psychologist. It is rather that the objects of investigation are intrinsically elusive, that their investigation demands both quickness and accuracy, and that the observer has to forget all social relations and take up a sturdily independent attitude to facts which are, in part at least (§ 2), of his own making. Many people are too complaisant, too reflective (letting reflection about experience take the place of experience itself), too impressionable, etc., to be impartial. To get at facts, we must be wholly unprejudiced : interested in the general subject, but not concerned to estabhsh a particular result. (2) When we introspect, we must have our attention under control. The attention must not be permitted either to flag or to wander. The reasons for this rule have been given above. The better we attend to an occurrence, the more accurate and lasting is our memory of it. It is difficult for the beginner to control his attention. In the first place, he has not learned by experience what exactly it is that he is required to attend to, and so is liable to be distracted by what are really accidental and irrelevant stimuli. And when this difficulty is overcome, there is still the danger that the attention may wander or flag. The observer will be apt to interrupt his introspection, asking himself whether he is carrying out instruc- tions, whether his attention is at full strain, what is the meaning of this or that condition of the experiment, etc. Practice is the only remedy for these faults j and even practice cannot secure an unflagging attention, if the observation be too long continued. (3) When we introspect, body and mind must be fresJi. Fatigue and exhaustion prevent any sustained concentration of the attention. We cannot attend if we are sleepy, or if we have worked our muscles to the state of pain and stiffness. And if we cannot attend, we cannot introspect. It follows that we can introspect best in the morning ; or, if 40 Sensatioji as a Conscious Element morning hours are not available, in the late afternoon, after re- freshment by moderate exercise. Introspection should not be attempted immediately after eating, /.., the exact ratio in which stimuli must increase to produce equal differences of sensa- tion intensity) is different in the different sense departments, (i) Weights laid upon the finger-tips must increase by one- twentieth to produce a noticeable difference in the intensity of pressure-, (2) noise stimuli must increase, as in our illustration, by one-third ; (3) brightness stimuli by one-hundredth ; (4) strain stimuli — lifted weights — by one-fortieth. There are indications that (5) intensities of tone and (6) of taste (salt and bitter) obey Weber's law, but no exact statement can be made with regard to them. Whether the law holds for the temperature sense is an open question. No investigation has been made of smell, or of any organic sensation other than strain. The law may be phrased mathematically as follows : If sensation intensities are to increase in arithmetical progression, stimulus intensities must increase in geometrical ; or, more shortly : Sensa- tion increases as the logarithm of stimulus. Method. — To find the numerical expression of Weber's law for noise. — An ivory ball is let fall, from two different heights, upon a hard-wood plate. The difference of intensity between the two sounds {i.e., the difference between the two heights of fall) must be slight. The two sounds are given in irregular order in different experiments (to avoid the influence of expectation), and the subject is required to say, in each case, whether the second is louder or weaker than the first. In 100 experiments, he will give a certain number of right answers, and a certain number of wrong. comparataruvi percipimus. (" In observing the difference between com- pared objects, we perceive not the [absolute] difference between the objects, but the proportion which the difference bears to their magnitude.") G 82 Intensity^ Extenty Duration of Sensation The method assumes that if the two sounds are just noticeably- different in intensity, the subject will give about 80% right and 20% wrong answers. This proportion is calculated by what mathematicians call the ' law of probability.' Now suppose that a certain difference gave 70 right and 30 wrong answers in 100 experiments. We could calculate, by aid of the integral calculus, how much larger the difference must have been to give 80 right and 20 wrong, — i.e., to be just noticeable. The calculated dif- ference (difference of height of fall) is the numerator, and the original intensity (original height of fall) of the weaker sound, the denominator, of the fraction which expresses Weber's law. § 28. Eye Measurement. — We have found a general law governing the relation of sensation intensity to stimulus. Is there any similar lav^ governing the relations of stimu- lus and sensation extent ? Nothing can be said by way of answer to this question in the spheres of pressure (whether from skin or joint) and temperature. Many experiments have been made, however, upon what is termed * eye measurement ' ; that is, upon the accuracy of our estima- tion of visual extents (lines). If a horizontal line, of moderate length, is bisected, and one of the halves gradually lengthened, the eye will find a difference between the two parts when the larger becomes one-fiftieth longer than the smaller. This rule holds good for stimuli of widely different absolute extent (lines of widely different length). Extent is one of the necessary attributes of visual sensations ; whenever we see, we see something extended. But it does not follow from this that extents are compared or estimated as ex- tents, i.e., that we can make a direct judgment of the relative lengths of two lines, without calling in the aid of other attributes of sensation. The rule given above — that equal additions to the extent of sensation mean relatively equal additions to the extent § 28. Eye Measurement 83 of stimulus — cannot but suggest Weber's law, the general formu- lation of which is precisely the same. The rule suggests, that is, that we compare or estimate ex- ri Jl O tent of sensation — — ™— «>-n__»«,a,H»„ by the help of Yig. 5. — Illustration of Weber's Law in the sphere of the intensity of eye-measurement. The length of b stands midway, some attendant fof sensation, between the lengths of a and c. If the sensation lines are measured it will be found that a:b — b\c. There is good reason for thinking that our estimation of visual extent is originally made by the help of the intensity of strain sensations. Each eye is slung in its socket upon six separate muscles. When we com- pare two lines, the natural thing to do is to * run the eyes along ' them ; and this movement of the eyes calls forth sensations of muscular contraction and of tendinous strain. A longer line occa- sions a more severe (stronger) strain, and a shorter hne a less severe strain. We estimate extent in terms of intensity. The numerical expression of Weber's law for strain intensities in experiments with hfted weights is one-fortieth. It is only to be expected that the fraction should be somewhat less in the case of the eye. The eye is constantly engaged with extents and their estimation, whereas the hand and arm are not so highly practised in the comparison of lifted weights. And the eyeball, with its six muscles and the tendons attaching to them, is set by itself in a bony socket, out of the reach of disturbance from the rest of the body ; whereas the muscles and tendons of hand and arm interact in a much more complex way, and are liable to disturbance from shoulder, back, etc., — indeed, from all the muscles and tendons employed to maintain a particular bodily attitude. It must not be supposed, however, that our judgment of the ex- tents of two lines in a particular experiment is necessarily based upon the intensities of strain sensations coming from the tendons of the eye muscles. The fiirther we advance into psychology, the more clearly shall we see that the mind can travel by many roads to the same result. We may ' remember ' an event in half-a- 84 Intensity, Extent, Duratioji of Sensation dozen different ways; we may 'compare' visual extents by half-a-dozen different methods. The natural and original way to compare them is, in all probabiUty, by aid of the intensity of attend- ant strain sensations ; if we take this way, Weber's law will, of course, be found to govern our judgment. Method. — Three white threads are stretched vertically over a grey background. The distance 1-2 is objectively equal to the distance 2-3. The former distance remains constant throughout the experiment. Thread 3 is now gradually moved outwards, till 2-3 seems just longer than 1-2. Owing to the error of expecta- tion (§ 24), the judgment 'longer' will come too soon, i.e., the estimation will be more accurate than the observer's average esti- mation. Thread 3 is then set further outwards, and from that point moved slowly inwards, until the tv\*o distances are apparently equal again. The judgment of equality comes too soon, i.e., is less accurate than the observer's average judgment. The exper- iment is now repeated in the reverse direction. We start out from objective equality of 1-2 and 2-3, and move 3 inwards, until 2-3 is just perceptibly shorter than 1-2. The judgment is too accurate. Then, beginning from a point further inwards, we move 3 out, until 2-3 is apparently equal to 1-2. The judgment is too inaccurate. — The whole procedure is now repeated, except that the distance 2-3 is kept constant throughout the experiments, while the distance 1-2 is varied. The eight judgments thus obtained are averaged : and the dif- ference between the constant distance and this average gives us a measure of the subject's accuracy in the discrimination of hori- zontal extents. § 29. The Time Sense. — The question of this Section is similiar to those of the tv^o preceding : Is there any gen- eral law governing the relation of stimulus to sensation duration .? or, as it has more often been phrased : Is there any general law governing our estimation of time intervals .? A time interval is never an * empty ' time ; if it is conscious, it is always the duration of something, some conscious § 29- The Time Sense 85 process or processes. Psychologically regarded, * inter- val ' and ' duration ' are convertible terms. Experiments upon the estimation of intervals (durations) are grouped together under the heading of the ' time sense.' It must be borne in mind that this expression is merely figurative. We have no special sense of time, any more than we have an intensity sense or an extent sense. All sensations have duration, but we have no sensation of duration. It has been found by experiment that judgments of the relative length of intervals (durations) are of three distinct kinds, according as the intervals themselves are shorter than half-a-second, longer than three seconds, or lie be- tween these time limits. (i) Our estimation of time intervals of less than half-a- second's duration is very accurate. We cannot as yet say with any degree of certainty upon what psychological grounds the judgment that one such interval is longer or shorter than another is based. But it is never a direct judgment of duration, i.e., a judgment based upon the estimation of two conscious durations. Hence we need not consider it here. All that we know at present of these judgments (beyond the fact that they are not judgments of duration) is that they vary with the sense department from which the stimuli which limit the intervals are taken, with the rhythm and accent of these stimuli, and with the direction of the attention to one stimulus or another. (i) If two equal intervals — say, of a quarter of a second's duration — are given, the one bounded by visual and the other by cutaneous (pressure) stimuli, the latter appears to be considerably the shorter of the two. This is because the visual after-sensation (§ 24) lasts longer than the cutaneous, and the ' visual ' interval is thus extended in a way in which the cutaneous interval is not. S6 Intensity, Extent, Duration of Sensation (2) When we listen to a rapid series of taps or clicks, we find ourselves ^ forced/ as it were, to accent some more strongly than others ; the sounds ' fall ' into a rhythm. Suppose that we have three taps, i.e., two intervals. If we accent the first, — i ' 2 3, — the first interval is judged to be the longer ; if we accent the second, — 12' 3, — the second; if the third, — i 2 3', — the first again. The effect of accent is to lengthen the following and shorten the pre- ceding interval. If the series really increases in loudness, the inter- vals seem to grow shorter ; if it decreases, they grow longer. (3) A chance direction of the attention has the same effect as accentuation or real change of intensity of the limiting stimuli. Thus it may reverse the judgment instanced under (i). There is here no direct comparison of durations ; our judgment of duration depends entirely upon the power of the limiting stimuli to hold the atten- tion. — The phenomena of accent can be observed in the ticking of a watch (four or five ticks to the one second) held to the ear. (2) Estimation of intervals longer than three seconds is an estimation of duration, but not a direct estimation. Our judgment that one interval is longer than another is based principally upon the difference in the number of mental processes which ran their course within the two total dura- tions. The more processes introspection shows to have occurred in an interval, the longer is that interval judged to be. These intervals, also, may be passed over here. (3) Durations which lie between the limits of half-a- second and three seconds are estimated as durations. For their estimation the law holds that equal differences of conscious duration are produced by relatively equal differ- ences of stimulus duration. That is, if time a is to seem as much longer than time b as time c seems longer than time d, the proportion must hold that a — b\b\\c — d'.d. We are again reminded of Weber's law. And indeed, just as estimation of visual extents is based upon* intensities of strain sen- §§ 29, 30. Time Sense and Meaning of Weber s Law diy sation (the sensations proceeding from the tendons of the eye muscles), and thus follows Weber's law, so apparently is the estimation of these time-intervals base^ upon intensities of strain sensation, — and the law formulated is not really a duration law, but Weber's law itself When we try to discover by introspection what means we have used for our comparison of two durations of this third kind, we find that strain intensities have played a great part in the formation of the judgment. The strain sensations come (i) from the expectant attitude of the whole body, and (2) from the adjustment of the sense-organ to the stimuli which limit the intervals to be compared. We estimate duration in terms of intensity : the more intensive the strain, the longer must the interval have been ; the less the strain, the shorter the time. Again, however, the natural and original way (§ 28) need not necessarily be followed ; and hence the results of experiments upon the estimation of these ' moderate ' intervals do not always agree. Much work remains to be done, before the psychological facts upon which the different time judgments are based can be completely described. Method. — An electric hammer is connected with an electric clock in such a way that it gives three sharp taps upon its base at the required intervals. The subject has to compare the lengths of the two intervals, just as he would compare two intensities or extents. We may employ the method of gradual change (§ 28), increasing and decreasing one interval until a difference between the two is remarked, or the method of right and wrong cases (§ 27), working with constant intervals which are very little dif- ferent. Or we may allow the hammer to give two strokes — one dura- tion — only, and require the subject to arrest the electric clock (by pressing a key) as soon as a time has elapsed which he judges to be equal to the given time. The errors w4iich he makes in a series of experiments furnish a measure of the accuracy of his estimation of duration. § 30. The Meaning of Weber's Law. — We can now pro- ceed to answer the question of § 25 : What goes on in the S8 Intensity, Extent, Duration of Se7isation bodily organs when a sensation changes in intensity ? The psychological facts embraced under Weber's law must be brought into connection with what physiology tells us of the effect produced upon nervous substance by stimuli of different intensities. (i) We know that nervous substance resists the incom- ing of stimulation. The resistance which it offers can be overcome only by stimuli of a certain strength. This physiological knowledge enables us to understand why very weak stimuli are not sensed at all : they are too weak to overcome the resistance which they encounter in the nervous centres. (2) Weak stimulation makes the nervous substance more excitable ; strong stimulation leaves it less excitable. Hence Weber's law does not hold for stimuli which ap- proach to minimal or maximal values. As the law holds over a wide range of stimuli, i.e., for all those of * moder- ate ' strength, we must suppose that moderate stimulation does not change the excitability of nervous substance. (3) The fact that moderate stimulation does not alter nervous excitability, taken together with the fact that ner- vous substance resists the incoming of stimuli, accounts for the general rule that change in sensation intensity does not come with every change in the intensity of stimulus. It might be thought that, when once an excitation had been set up, the resistance of nervous substance had been once for all overcome, and that we ought, consequently, to sense any addition made to the strength of stimulus. But the moderately excited nervous substance offers as much resistance as the unexcited to the incoming stimulus ; and a small addition to the strength of the latter is, therefore, not sensed. § 30. The Meaning of Weber's Lazv 89 (4) Physiology asserts that a stimuhis which affects a particular sense-organ not only produces an excitation within that organ, but is more or less widely diffused over the whole body. Thus a light-stimulus not only sets up an excitation within the retina, but also has an effect upon circulation, respiration, etc. Some part of the energy of every stimulus, then, is lost for sensation. Weber's law shows that the part which is lost (and con- sequently the part which is used) always bears the same relation to the total stimulus. A light of 100 candle-power is just different from a light of lOi ; a light of 200 from a light of 202. Just the same proportion of light is lost (and just the same proportion used) in the one case as in the other. Since strong stimulation decreases the excitability of nervous substance, it is intelligible that the fraction which expresses the relative increase of stimulus necessary to produce a just notice- able increase of sensation should be larger in the case of strong stimuli than in that of moderate (Weber's law). And we find that while tlie just noticeable difference of noise is one-third for moderate sounds, it is much more than one-third for extremely loud sounds. Since weak stimulation increases the excitabihty of nervous substance, we might suppose that the corresponding fraction would be smaller than that which expresses Weber's law. The reverse is the case : the fraction is larger for less than moderate, as it was for more than moderate stimuli. The just noticeable difference of very faint noise, that is, is also more than one- third. The reasons for this, at first sight anomalous, fact are as follows, (i) It is difficult to hold the attention upon a very weak stimulus. Hence small differences between very faint sensations may pass un- noticed {cf. §§ T^^, 41). (2) The sense-organs are at all times subject to the action of weak internal stimulation. In some cases 90 Intensity^ Extent, Duration of Sensation this stimulation is strong enough to maintain a permanent sensation {cf. the black of the retina, § 24), in other cases it only occasion- ally reaches the necessary strength (we are ordinarily insensible, e.g., to the internal ear-noises, corresponding to the pumping of blood through the arteries of the internal ear) : it is always present in some degree. When we state numerically the increase of stim- ulus required to produce an increase of sensation, we make this in- crease a fractional part of the external stimulus alone : it should properly be calculated as a fractional part of external plus internal stimulus. Thus if a very faint sound had to be increased by one- half, that the two might be sensed as different, we should say that Weber's law did not hold : Weber's law demands a difference of one-third only. Yet this addition, which is one-half of the ex- ternal sound, might be one-third of external sound plus artery- sounds, — if we could but measure the latter. In general terms, the deviation from Weber's law may oftentimes be apparent only, not real. (3) If the deviation be real, we may suppose that the increase of nervous excitability, within the time limits of a single experiment, is not sufficient to counterbalance the resistance offered by nervous substance to the incoming of stim- ulus. (5) The numerical expression of Weber's lav^ is differ- ent in the different sense departments. By the eye we can appreciate a difference of one-hundredth in the in- tensity of a stimulus ; by the ear, a difference of one-third only. This proves that the nervous substance of the eye is far more excitable by ether vibrations than is that of the ear by air-waves. It is plain from these considerations that the bodily con- ditions of sensation intensity are of a general nature, that they are alike in all the sense-organs. And wherever our estimation of durations and extents is based upon differ- ences in the intensity of strain .sensations, the bodily con- ditions of these aspects of sensation are the same as the § 30. TJie Meaning of Weber s Lazv 91 conditions of intensity. Weber's law ' explains ' the phe- nomena of intensity, extent and duration, over the whole domain of sensation, in the sense in which our account of the structure and function of eye or ear ' explains ' the qualities of vision or audition. CHAPTER V Affection as a Conscious Element. The Methods OF investigating Affection § 31. The Definition of Affection. — We can quite well conceive of a mind which should be entirely made up of sensation processes and the processes arising from the interconnection and intermixture of sensations (perceptions and ideas). Certain mythologies represent the divine mind to be of this type : it is omniscient {i.e., the ideas of which it consists form the total sum of all possible ideas), but it is also indifferent (unfeeling) and contem- plative (inactive). Mind as we observe it, however, is of a very different nature. The living organism is exposed through its sense-organs to all manner of stimuli, and its mental processes are in large measure the sensation pro- cesses directly aroused by these stimuli. But the organism is not indifferent. It not only senses : it feels. It not only receives impressions and has sensations: it receives impressions in a certain way. When we have spoken in previous Sections of the effect of stimulation upon a bodily organ, we have thought of the body as entirely passive. We have pictured the stimulus as forcing its way through the organ, and setting up some change in it and in the brain, just as we might have pictured the photographer's acid eating away the surface of the sensitive plate. But the body is alive ; and 92 §31- The Defiiiition of Affection 93 life means the balance of power (more or less perfect) in the perpetual conflict of two opposing forces, — growth and decay. No impression can be made upon the living body that does not tend in some way to change this balance, — that does not tip the scale on one side or the other, furthering growth or hastening decay. Hence every stimulus that produces a special effect, within a certain organ and the area of the brain cortex with which that organ is connected, must also produce a general effect upon the nervous system {cf. § 30). It must help either to build up nervous substance or to break it down. The organism is a whole : and what affects it in either of these ways at one part, must affect it as a whole, in all. The conscious processes corresponding to the general bodily processes thus set up by stimuli — processes not confined to definite bodily organs — are termed affections. It will be readily understood that we cannot classify affections as we classified sensations ; that there are no different orders or groups of affections as there are of sensations. There are many sense-organs, and each organ furnishes one or two groups or classes of sensations : but there is only one affective organ, — the whole body. It will be seen, further, that there cannot be so many quali- ties of affection as there are, e.g.y of sight or hearing. We have a large number of sensations of colour, because ether-waves of different lengths set up different chemical processes within the retina ; we have a large number of sensations of tone, because air-waves of different lengths throw different fibres of the basilar membrane into vi- bration. But there are only two bodily processes to give rise to affective processes : the building-up process (anab- olism) and the breaking-down process (catabolism). We 94 Affection as a Conscious Element should expect, then, to find no more than two quaHties of affection. And introspection tells us that the expectation is correct. The anabolic bodily processes correspond to the conscious quality of pleasantness^ catabolic processes to that of unpleasantness. These are the only qualities of affection. In our definition of sensation, we took account of its simplicity as a conscious process, and of its bodily con- ditions. Of the simplicity of affection — pleasantness and unpleasantness — there can be no doubt : neither of its two qualities can be analysed into more simple and ele- mentary components. It is, as we have seen, unlike sen- sation in that it is not connected with a bodily process in a definite bodily organ. The organism, as a whole, receives the impressions made upon it in a certain way : an affection is the conscious process arising from its /way of receiving ' a particular impression. § 32. Affection and Sensation. — The processes of pleas- antness and unpleasantness seem, at least in many cases, to bear a strong resemblance to certain concrete experi- ences which we have analysed, provisionally, as complexes of sensations (§ 21). Thus pleasantness may suggest health, drowsiness, bodily comfort; and unpleasantness pain, discomfort, overtiredness, etc. Hence it might be supposed — notwithstanding the statements of the preced- ing Section — that the two qualities which we have ascribed to affection are in reality two new qualities of common or organic sensation ; perhaps common, like pain, to all the sensory nerves of the body, perhaps restricted, like press- ure, to a few great groups of sensory nerves. Now there can be no doubt of the resemblance in the instances cited. But the reason of it is simply this : that § 32. Affection and Sensation 95 health, drowsiness, and bodily comfort are pleasant, i.e., that pleasantness is one of the constituent processes, run- ning alongside of various sensation processes, in the total conscious experience which we call 'health,' etc.; and that pain, bodily discomfort, and overtiredness are unpleas- ant, i.e., that unpleasantness is one of the processes con- tained in each of these complex experiences. Beyond this there is no resemblance : a sensation process is radically different from a pleasantness or unpleasantness. The following considerations will be enough to make the fact clear. (i) The first great difference between sensations on the one hand and pleasantness and unpleasantness on the other is that the former are looked upon as more or less common property, — as inherent, so to speak, in the objects which give rise to them, and therefore as possible parts of every one's experience, — while the latter are our own peculiar property. Blue seems to belong to the sk}f ; but the pleasantness of the blue is in me. Warmth seejn's to belong to the burning coals ; but the pleasantness of the warmth is in me. Regarded from the point of view of the psychologist, blue, warm and pleasant are all mental processes, \ all facts of one's own experience; regarded from the point of view of ordinary life, blue and warm are somehow detachable from oneself and one's personal experience, whereas pleasantness is always within oneself. The distinction is unhesitatingly drawn in popular thought, and clearly shown in language. It points to a real differ- ence between sensation and affection as factors in mental experience, — a difference which the psychologist must make explicit in his definition of the two processes. The same difference is observed even when we compare 96 Affection as a Conscious Element the affective processes with those sensations which are occasioned from within, by a change in the state of a bodily organ. The unpleasantness of a toothache is far more personal to me than the pain of it. The pain is ' in the tooth ' ; the unpleasantness is as wide as conscious- ness.^ So too when the discomfort of a cramped position makes me shift in my chair : the muscular and circulatory pains proceed from certain parts of the body, but the unpleasantness pervades the whole consciousness of the moment. Satiety and easy digestion dispose one to a favourable view of things in general : the sensations which enter into them are referred to the alimentary canal, but their pleasantness is diffused over the whole mental horizon. We may put this first difference between sensation and affection briefly as follows : Sensations are objective and local, affections are subjective and coextensive with con- sciousness. It is an obvious corollary to this statement that two affections cannot run their course as conscious processes at the same time. Nothing can be at once pleasant and unpleasant. * Why, then/ it may be asked, ' do we hear of " mixed feel- ings"? Why does Shakespeare make Juliet say: "Parting is such sweet sorrow" — i.e., a pleasant unpleasantness? Or how can Tennyson's Geraint look at the dinnerless mowers with "humorous ruth" — i.e., again, with a pleasant unpleasant feel- ing ? * The answer is that the nervous system may very well be exposed, at different quarters, to stimuli some of which are cata- bolic and some anabolic ; some of which, that is, if felt by them- selves, would be felt pleasantly, and some of which, if felt alone, 1 The word ' pain,' as used in ordinary conversation, often means the whole toothache experience : pressure sensation, pain sensation and unpleasantness. In the text the word is used in its strict meaning, to indicate the common sen- sation in the complex (§ 21). § 32. Affection mid Sensation 97 would be felt unpleasantly. And the attention may oscillate, as it were, between the one group and the other ; so that pleasant- ness and unpleasantness succeed each another in consciousness with great rapidity. The boy leaves home for school with ^ mixed feehngs ' ; he is sorry to go (unpleasantness), but his new watch partly reconciles him to his fate (pleasantness). Nevertheless, at any given moment he is either glad or sorry ; watch-conscious- ness and parting-consciousness succeed each other rapidly, but never overlap ; there is no moment of combined joy and sorrow. (2) If we are exposed for a long time together to the same stimulus (and if the sensation which the stimulus arouses ds not of a kind to pass over into pain : § 25), we cease to be affected by it at all. The cookery of a foreign country is, when we first make acquaintance with it, dis- tinctly pleasant or unpleasant ; but in either case quickly becomes indifferent. Dwellers in the country do not find the pleasure in country scents and odours that the towns- man does; they have 'grown used' to their surroundings. The whir of a sewing machine in the room above that in which we are working may at first be extremely annoying ; but as we become accustomed to it, its unpleasantness dis- appears. The smell of the dissecting room, which sickens us at our first entry, does not affect us at all after a little time. And it is the same with centrally aroused pleasant- ness and unpleasantness \cf. (4) below]. During the first few weeks of our stay in a beautiful neighbourhood we may be continually delighted with the colours and forms of the landscape. But we soon grow indifferent to them : fields and streams and hills are seen as clearly as ever, but have ceased to excite pleasure. The beauty of a new dinner service may be remarked on with pleasure for a short time, but ' familiarity breeds ' indifference. On the H 98 Affection as a Conscious Element other hand, a piece of vulgarity which at first offends us may be taken as a matter of course if constantly repeated among those into whose company we are thrown. Habituation to an experience, then, weakens or destroys the pleasantness or unpleasantness which originally at- tached to it. There is no similar weakening or destruc- tion of sensations. The noise of the sewing machine is heard as clearly as ever, when a friend calls our attention to it ; but we smile as we listen, thinking of our earlier unpleasant experience. That experience has gone, not to reappear. This is the second cardinal difference between the two processes. ' But/ it may be said, ' affection is the way in which the organ- ism receives its impressions. How, then, can anything be indiffer- ent? We must receive impressions somehow, whether we are accustomed to them or not.' We reply that the objection does not state the facts quite correctly. Affection is not the ^way,' but the * conscious process corresponding to the way ' in which the organism receives its impressions. Just as there are stimuli which do not arouse a sensation (§ 30), so there is a way of receiving impressions, to which no conscious process whatever corresponds. To explain this, we must emphasise the biological fact of adaptation. The organism is constantly exposed to a multitude of impressions : to sights, sounds, changes of tempera- ture, organic disturbances, etc. Every one of these does, un- doubtedly, exercise a definite effect upon it, for good or for harm. But nervous substance, at the same time that it is very impressionable, is eminently adaptable. The organism adjusts itself to its circumstances, — resigns itself, so to say, to their in- evitableness. When once adaptation or adjustment to surround- ings is complete, the surroundings cease to be taken either pleasantly or unpleasantly : their impressions are simply received, passively and unfeelingly. '■ Adaptation ' is a biological term. Translated into physiology it § 32. Affect to Ji and Sensation 99 means that the disturbance of nervous equiUbrium (§31) caused by a particular set of stimuU can be adjusted by the lower nerve- centres, without appeal to the highest co-ordinating centre [see (4) below]. There is enough energy stored in these lower centres to repair damage done to the organism by stimulation ; and they have functioned in one way so often that they no longer need direction, but can be trusted to do what is required of them when occasion arises. (3) The more closely we attend to a sensation, the clearer does it become, and the longer and more accu- rately do we remember it. We cannot attend to an affec- tion at all. If we attempt to do so, the pleasantness or unpleasantness at once eludes us and disappears, and we find ourselves attending to some obtrusive sensation or idea which we had no desire to observe. If we wish to get pleasure from a beautiful picture, we must attend to the picture : if, with our eyes on it, we try to attend to our feelings, the pleasantness of the experience is gone. This difference becomes intelligible when we remember that affection corresponds to the way in which the organism receives its impressions. We can never attend to a way, a manner or mode of acting or being acted on. Suppose that we wish to know ' how ' a steam-engine works. We attend to the parts of the machine, note the different positions which they assume, etc., and so form an idea of the manner in which the engine works. We can attend to this idea easily enough ; we can attend to any idea. But the idea of the way is not the way : that, in the nature of things, cannot be attended to. (4) We have seen that sensations arise in two ways (§ 7), — from peripheral stimulation (flash of yellow light) and from central excitation (remembrance or imagination of yellow). As a general rule, 'central' sensations are 100 Affection as a Conscious Element much fainter and weaker than 'peripheral.' A remem- bered noise has hardly anything of the intensity of the noise as heard. Affection can originate in the same two ways. But ' central ' pleasantness and unpleasantness are not only as strong as — they are in very many cases stronger than — 'peripheral.' Pleasantness and unpleasantness can be set up peripherally by an impression affecting any sensory nerve. The balance of anabolism and catabolism, of loss and gain, may be disturbed at any point of the peripheral nervous system. They can be set up centrally, again, by an excitation within any sensory area of the cortex, — the visual centre, the auditory centre, etc. But it is necessary in both cases that the disturbance be carried to the highest ' co-ordinating centre ' of the brain, — the cortex of the frontal lobes. If the experience is indifferent, — if the stimulus is too weak to force its way through the lower centres, or has be- come habitual, i.e., can be disposed of by the lower centres, — the frontal lobes are unaffected. They are the scene of anabolic processes (well supplied with oxygenated blood) if the experience is pleasant ; of catabolic (scantily supplied with oxygen and feebly irrigated by arterial blood) , if it is unpleasant. There are very few ' peripheral ' affections which can success- fully compete with the * central' affections in the civilised mind. Different men are differently constituted ; we find one succumbing to the passion of sexual lust, another to the pleasures of the palate, etc. But the only peripheral affection which can be counted upon to conquer central affection in the average mind is the unpleasant- ness which accompanies an extreme intensity of the common sen- sation of pain : and even this rule has exceptions. Instances of the contrary are plentiful: pleasure in work (central) makes us for- get our dinner hour and the pleasure of eating (peripheral) ; the glow of pleasure attending a good action (central) leads us to go out of doors in bad weather (peripheral unpleasantness) ; fear of ridicule (central unpleasantness) prevents our rising to close a win- dow in a draughty concert hall (peripheral unpleasantness), etc. § 33- ^^^^ Methods of Investigating Affection loi We see, then, that there are strong reasons for regard- ing affection as different from sensation. It must be carefully noted that the statements just given of these reasons do not tell us hozv ' red,' a sensation, differs from ' pleasant,' an affection, in mental experience. They are sufficient indication that a real difference exists ; but the difference itself cannot be described, — it must be expe- rienced. § 33. The Methods of investigating Affection. — There are two chief difficulties in the way of affective investigation. We cannot attend to a pleasantness or unpleasantness ; and we can describe our affective experience only in a roundabout way. Hence if we were confined exclusively to the employment of psychological method, — the method of experimental introspection, — we should find it very hard to give an adequate account of affective experience. Fortunately, we can supplement this direct method by an indirect, physiological method, which allows us to infer the presence and intensity of affective processes from their bodily consequences. The second difficulty — that of describing affection — must not be confused with the difficulty of defining affection. It is just as easy to define affection as to define sensation, if we understand by definition a statement (i) of the simplicity of the processes^ (2) of their bodily conditions and (3) of their qualities. The difficulty of describing affection lies in the fact that spoken language — words and sentences — communicates ideas, and ideas only. If I say ' I am very angry,' you know that I am angry, but you do not feel my anger. A verbal description of affection is therefore always a description at second hand; it translates the affection into an idea of affection, and conveys to the hearer not a pleasantness or unpleasantness, but simply an idea of pleasant- ness or unpleasantness. I02 Affection as a Conscious Element There is, however, an affective language proper : the language of exclamation and gesture. We have learnt, in the course of civilisation, to repress our emotions : we rarely use this language, and if on occasion we wish to do so, are apt to make ourselves ridiculous. But that the language might have been developed cannot be doubted by any one who has observed dogs and mon- keys, or has seen the effect produced upon an audience by some great actor's presentation of pity or despair. (i) Psychological Method, — A series is formed of stimuli which belong to the same sense department (col- oured papers, woollen fabrics, etc.). Each in turn is pre- sented to the observer, who gives it his complete attention, and when it has produced its full effect for sensation, asks himself whether it is pleasant or vmpleasant, and whether it is more or less pleasant or unpleasant than preceding impressions. The rule of experimental introspection in the sphere of affection will accordingly run as follows {cf. § 9): Have yottrself placed under such conditions that there is as little likelihood as possible of external interference with the test to be made. Attend to each stimulus as it is pre- sented^ andy when it is remove d^ form an idea (§ ^^ of the pleasantness or unpleasantness zvhich yoic felt during its observation. Put this idea into words ^ stating {\) whether it is an idea of pleasjirable affection, itnpleasiLrable affection or indifference, and (2) in the tzvo former cases, whether it is an idea of m,uch or little, more or less, pleasantriess or unpleasantness. The assistant's account of the conditions, and your own verbal translation {i.e., translation into ideas) of your affective experience furnish data from which other psychologists can work. It is probable that in every series of stimuli, such as this method requires, there will be some accustomed or habitual impressions. § 33- '^^^^ Methods of Investigating Affectioji 103 which are neither pleasant nor unpleasant. These must be marked 'indifferent.' Indifference is not a third affective quality: the indifferent impression is one from which affection has ' worn off.' (2) Physiological Method. — Affection appears when there is a general alteration of the nervous system, in- cluding its highest co-ordinating organ, by way of anabo- lism or catabolism : in the one case we have pleasantness, in the other unpleasantness. Such an alteration will, of course, show itself in certain bodily effects. Seeing these effects, and knowing that the cause of them • — the nervous change — is the bodily condition of affection, we are able to turn them to account for psychological purposes. The principal bodily effects are four in number. We find that pleasantness is attended (i) by increase of bodily volume, due to the expansion of arteries running just beneath the skin ; (2) by deepened breathing ; (3) by heightened pulse ; and (4) by increase of muscular power. Unpleasantness is accompanied by the reverse phenom- ena of lessened volume, light breathing, weak pulse, and diminished muscular power. There are special physio- logical instruments by which each of these manifestations can "be measured. If we arrange them so that they record the state of the subject's pulse, muscular strength, etc., and then bring to bear upon him various forms of stimula- tion, calculated to call up pleasantness and unpleasantness in varying degrees, we can infer from the changes in the records how he has * felt ' from moment to moment of the experiment. Introspection is here altogether unnecessary. Let us suppose that the subject is ' in position ' : the chest con- nected with an instrument which writes the respiration curve, the rise and fall of the chest in inspiration and expiration, the left wrist with another, which marks the pulse beats, the right leg with I04 Affection as a Conscious Ele^jient a third, which registers volume, and the right hand ready at com- mand to grip the handle of a * dynamometer,' which will record the amount of muscular force that the hand can put forth. He is told that, whatever happens, he must remain still, in order that the various instruments may not be deranged ; and he is told further that the unpleasant stimuli to be employed are not so very unpleasant that he need have any great apprehension of what will happen to him. After a short time has elapsed, a spoonful of some colourless liquid is poured into his mouth. In spite of the assurances given, the records will probably show some trace of agitation at this moment. However, if the liquid is sweet, the pleasantness of the stimulus will at once make itself apparent in the curves, and on the scale of the dynamometer. After another brief interval another stimulus is given : perhaps another sweet, perhaps a bitter, perhaps a tasteless solution. The resulting pleas- antness, unpleasantness or indifference will be clearly marked by the instruments. The general rules for the introspection of affection are the same as those for the introspection of sensation. We must be (i) impartial, (2) closely attentive to the stimuli, (3) fresh and (4) well-disposed. The last condition is es- pecially important. For the way in which we receive impressions must naturally vary as our * mood ' varies. If we are unusually cheerful, all the stimuli of the series will tend to be pleasant ; if we are depressed and melan- choly, the experiment and everything connected with it are likely to be unpleasant. The subject's mood must be care- fully observed and noted by the assistant before the ex- perimental series is begun. This last rule applies, with even greater stringency, to investigation by the physiological method. We must be quite certain that the pulse, volume, etc., recorded by the various instruments at the beginning of the experiments § 34- ^^^^ Attributes of Affection 105 represent a mental indifference on the part of the observer. The bodily expressions of affection have no value at all, unless we know precisely what the state of the body is before affection appears in consciousness. If we always begin with indifference, increase or decrease of pulse, mus- cular strength, etc., as recorded by the instruments from day to day, gives us a reliable measure of the variations in quality and intensity of the affective process under different experimental conditions. § 34. The Attributes of Affection. — Affection has two qualities^ — pleasantness and unpleasantness. Each of these qualities may appear at very different degrees of intensity, and, when present, may last for a longer or shorter time. Neither, of course, has the attribute of spa- tial extent, though we may say, in metaphorical language, that the affection of any moment is ^ coextensive with con- sciousness.' All three attributes — quality, intensity and duration — call for brief notice here. "" ^ (i) Quality. — We have already spoken of the general bodily conditions under which the two affective qualities appear in consciousness. But we cannot say anything certainly of the degree of nervous loss or gain which cor- responds to a particular intensity of pleasantness or un- pleasantness. Hence in practical life we always refer affections to stimuli, to the external occurrences which eem to give rise to them. And in recording the results f experiments upon affection — whether made by the psychological or the johysiological method — we find it necessary to give the special conditions of their appear- ance, i.e., to name the external stimuli which called them forth on each particular occasion. A general rule has lo6 Affection as a Conscious Element been formulated, on the basis of experiments thus re- corded, to the effect that, other things equal, weak stimuli are indifferent, stimuli of moderate intensity pleasant, and strong stimuli unpleasant. " Other things equal " is a very needful qualification. If other things are not equal, — if the peripheral affection be reinforced or checked by a central, — the rule does not hold. Thus, if we are seeking to ascertain the minimal sensation intensity, a weak stim- ulus may be absorbingly interesting, instead of being indifferent, as the rule says. The ' weak ' stimuli of the rule are those which cannot over- come the resistance of the lower nerve-centres, and force their way through them to the frontal lobes. Stimuli of this sort are neither pleasant nor unpleasant. ' Moderate ' stimuli are those which call upon the bodily organs to exercise their normal func- tion, and thus further growth and development. ' Strong ' stimuli are those which make too severe demands upon the organs, /.,, become indif- ferent, to it, or we find it unpleasant. Physiology teaches us that a continued stimulation, to which the organism has not adapted itself, § 34- '^^^^ Attributes of Affection 107 decreases the excitability of nervous substance, making towards catabolism. For the same reason an irregular recurrence of stim- ulation, in whatever sense department, is unpleasant : flickering light, ' pins and needles,' jarring sounds, etc. Lastly, a strong stimulus, if it act only for a short time, may be sensed and felt as would a moderate stimulus, longer continued. This is seen, e.g.^ in the carrying or lifting of weights. (2) Intensity. — It has been suggested — and the sug- gestion is not improbable — that if the intensity of pleas- antness or unpleasantness is to be increased by equal amounts, its stimuli must increase by relatively equal amounts (Weber's law). If my library contains 100 vol- umes, and 10 more are given me, I am as pleased as I should be by an addition of 100 to a library of 1000. At any rate, it is true, as a general rule, that what causes us pleasure and displeasure is proportional to our income, station in life, etc. A child is pleased by a gift to which an adult would be indifferent. The stamp which completes a *set' in the school-boy's album gives him as much pleasure as the acquisition of the last farm which completes the ring-fence gives the wealthy landed pro- prietor. And an ironical phrase or sarcastic expression of face wounds a sensitive mind as much as an open rebuff or direct affront affects one of coarser fibre. (3) Duration. — The duration of a pleasantness or un- pleasantness can hardly be estimated. It is very difficult to say just when we cease to be affected by an event and become indifferent to it. Moreover, a peripheral affection is almost invariably blended with and continued in a central ; and as the two are precisely the same in quality, nothing can be said of the time at which the one ceases and the other begins. io8 Affection as a Conscious Element ^'How delightful ! — Who could have sent it ! " is the exclama- tion that we all make when we receive an unexpected present from an unknown giver. The peripheral pleasantness is hardly there before we begin to imagine reasons for the gift, cast round for the giver, etc., i.e., before a central affection is added to ito And on the other side : how much of our chagrin at a fall on a slippery path is due to peripheral unpleasantness accompanying the pain of the bruise, and how much to central unpleasantness — "How stupid of me to slip!"? Only in very extreme cases, during intense pain, is the affection exclusively peripheral, and in these cases there is generally a rapid passage to unconsciousness (swoon or faint). CHAPTER VI Conation and Attention § 35. Bodily Tendency and Mental Constitution. — In the last chapter we dwelt upon the fact that the organism receives impressions in a certain way : the consciousness of any moment is made up, not of sensations alone, but of sensations and affection. Having now examined the con- scious processes which correspond to the ' impressions ' and to the 'way in which they are received,' we have, in the present chapter, to consider the nature of the ' or- ganism * itself, — to enquire whether there are any organic functions or processes, altogether independent of stimu- lus, with which other specific conscious processes are connected. We may define an organism, from our present stand- point, as a bundle of tendencies. A tendency is, by deriva- tion, a * stretching towards.' The living body, as we have regarded it hitherto, consists of two things : the sense- organs and the nervous system. The sense-organs are instruments which work in pretty much the same way for all normal persons. The same sense stimulus will always give rise to the same sensation : a certain ether-wave arouses the sensation of blue in all normal eyes, a body of a certain chemical constitution arouses the sensation of sweet on all normal tongues. And at any given time, each man's nervous system — the most complicated and most 109 no Conation and Attention highly developed part of his body — responds, as a whole, in the same way to the same attributes of stimulus. Mod- erate stimulation is pleasant, excessive or intermittent stimulation unpleasant. But we have seen that there is a great difference between different nervous systems, and in the same nervous system at different times : a particular sense stimulus, while it always produces the same effects in the sense-organ and the part of the brain with which the organ is most directly connected, does 7tot always pro- duce the same effect upon the total nervous system. What is pleasant to one man now may be unpleasant or indifferent to another, and to himself at another time. As between different nervous systems, these differences show themselves antecedently to any habituation of the organ- ism to the impression. In biological language, the differences are differences of tendency. The nervous system has, in every individual case, certain definite leanings, a bias in certain definite directions. It is more inclined, better fitted, to receive certain impressions than to receive others. In physio- logical language, the functions of the nervous system dif- fer, in degree if not in kind, in every individual case. The nervous system, regarded as a machine, is a machine which can do one kind of work and not another, — or, if it does this other, can do it less thoroughly ; and the kind of work, or the thoroughness of its doing, varies from man to man. We may compare different nervous systems to different languages. The general function of all languages is the same, — the communication of ideas ; and the general function of all nervous systems is the same. But just as different languages are differently adapted to the perform- § 35- Bodily Tendertcy aitd Mental Constitution in ance of special functions, — Italian is the language to sing in, German the language to philosophise in, French the language for science, English the language of commerce and practical intercourse, — so different nervous systems are differently adapted to the performance of special func- tions. They have a * tendency ' towards the performance of one, while there is friction of the machinery, more or less serious, if they are called upon to perform others. The question how tendencies originate is one for the biologist, not the psychologist, to answer. We can merely note here that some are ' natural ' and some ' acquired.' (i) Natural Tendencies. — The history of an individual does not begin with his first appearance in the world as an individual, an independent centre of experiences, but goes far back to the very beginnings of hfe. Our natural, i.e., inherited tendencies are derived largely from our parents, but in part also from their parents, and in part from remote ancestors. Plainly, we cannot trace the history of such tendencies very fully or very far. But it is sufficient for our present purpose to recognise that every living being is naturally ' selective,' in greater or less degree, — has ' affinities ' for certain stimuli, as chemical elements have ' affinities ' for cer- tain other elements : its surroundings do not all appeal to it with equal force ; there are lines of less resistance and Hnes of greater resistance along which its functions may be discharged. (2) Acqui^-ed Tendencies. — The strength of the natural ten- dencies, however, is very different in different individuals ; and the child's nervous system is very plastic, very easily moulded. Hence habit may become second nature : a tendency engrafted on the organism from without may come to such a growth as entirely to overshadow its natural or hereditary leanings. Many a young man whose * taste ' is for art has entered upon a business life with great reluctance and only under the pressure of necessity ; but when he has assured himself a competency, and is in a position to relinquish business for his old pursuits, the routine of work has so strong a hold upon him that there is no question of any change of occupa- tion. 112 Conation and Attention Now as we have found that certain local excitations within the nervous system are attended by a specific con- scious process, — sensation; and that the change of equi- librium brought about in the nervous system as a whole by the action of stimuli is also attended by a specific conscious process, — affection ; we might naturally suppose that there would be a specific conscious process, a third elementary process, alongside of sensation and affection, correspond- ing to the bias or leaning of the nervous system. But intro- spection affords no confirmation of this view. It does not reveal any trace of a third conscious element, accompany- ing the bodily tendency, the *set' of the nervous system for the discharge of particular functions. On the other hand, there can be no doubt that, as the condition of mental ' constitution,' bodily tendencies are of great importance for psychology. They mark out the paths, so to speak, which mental processes in general are to follow. No specific mental process is due to them, in the sense in which the specific sensation of red is due to a special ex- citation of retina and visual brain centre; but they cut the channels in which the stream of conscious processes flows, and consequently determine the direction which the stream is to take. That minds differ, although the processes which make them up are of the same nature, is obvious. Differences of mental consti- tution show themselves in differences of character, temperament, ability, preferred employment, etc. One man is ' steady,' another ' unreliable ' ; one is ' emotional,' another ' phlegmatic ' ; one ' tal- ented,' another ' stupid ' ; one devoted to music, another equally enamoured of the study of medicine. Many proverbial expressions bear witness to the same fact. "The poet is born, not made" and "The child' is father of the man " point to the existence and persistence of a peculiar mental § 35- Bodily Tendency and Mental ConstittUion 113 constitution, — corresponding, in the one case, to a natural ten- dency, and in the other to natural tendencies as modified by edu- cation, i.e., by acquired tendencies. When we see that a man is unfitted by character, temperament, etc., for his post, we say that he is " a square peg in a round hole " ; and by his ' squareness ' we mean his mental constitution, the mould of his character or the bent of his temperament. The prayer " Lead us not into tempta- tion " is an admission that conscious processes run in certain chan- nels more easily than in other channels, i.e., in biological language, that the organism leans in a certain direction, is more impression- able by certain stimuli than by others. We represented mind, in Fig. i, as a complex of processes, increasing in complication from childhood to manhood, and de- creasing again from middle life to old age. We now see that, if the diagram is to be accurate, it must be drawn differently for every individual mind. Bodily tendency conditions the shape of the diagram. Mind is a stream of processes flowing between banks, through channels which are now deep-cut and now shallow, which lead now in this direction and now in that, which now incline easily downwards and now run at the same level. Just as the course of a river is determined by the nature of the country through which it passes, so the course or trend of mind is deter- mined by the nature of the nervous system, by the predominance of the one or the other biological tendency. To establish the fact of differences of mental constitu- tion in a scientific way, we must observe our neighbours' minds in the light of an introspective analysis of our own. Two methods are open to us here, (i) We may compare the statements of other psychologists with our own intro- spective results. Then we find, perhaps, that one, wishing to recall the French equivalent of an English word, tries to remember how it looks, and another how it sounds ; that the memory of one is * mechanical,' a storehouse of sepa- rate facts, while that of another is ' logical,' the facts re- 114 Conation and Attentio7t membered falling into connection and taking their places in a coherent and unified system of knowledge ; that one reaches his conclusions * inductively,' gathering together a collection of instances, and seeking to find a single expla- nation for them all, while another argues 'deductively,' jumping at once from a few instances to a general hy- pothesis, and then testing this by applying it to other instances ; and so on. (2) Or we may construct our neighbour's consciousness from his actions, reasoning by analogy that as our mental processes are of certain kinds when we act in a certain way, his mental processes must be of this or that kind, when he acts in this or that man- ner. And we are forced to the conclusion, here as before, that the course or trend of conscious processes differs very considerably in different individuals. Similar stimuli have widely different effects : the series of mental processes set up by them, — so far as it can be inferred from actions, — may be altogether dissimilar. The beetle crossing your path is intensely interesting to you, if you are an entomolo- gist, but may go unheeded, or even be an object of repug- nance, if you are not. A blow which ' crushes ' one man only serves to * bring out ' the character of another, who 'rises to the occasion.' From observations of this kind we are led to classify minds under general headings. We are helped in two ways : we are constantly in the company of other people, and thus continually have thrust upon our notice the re- semblances and differences which obtain between them and ourselves ; and we are sorted out, during childhood, into classes which show how our mental constitution is regarded by parents and teachers, — into ' good ' and 'naughty,' 'scatter-brained' and 'plodding,' 'ingenious' § 35- Bodily Tendency and Mental Constitution 115 and 'awkward.' So we come to think of minds as repre- senting different types : we classify our neighbours and ourselves as dull or clever, sanguine or melancholy, ready- witted or absent-minded, and so on. Although our bodily tendencies never become conscious, — introspection can- not discover any specific tendency-process, — yet we find mental phenomena which may legitimately be brought into connection with those undisputed biological facts to which the name of 'tendencies' is given. In this way we are able, as psychologists, to assert the existence of tendencies, despite the impossibility of any direct experience of them. To emphasise stil] further the fact that the tendency does not correspond to a specific conscious process, and that therefore we have no direct knowledge of it, let us suppose that there were but one man in the world, and he an enthusiastic botanist. He would never know that he had a leaning towards the study of plants. There would be no opportunity for a comparison of his pursuits with those of other men, which would teach him that ' botanic consciousness ' and ' human consciousness ' are not identical ex- pressions. He could describe, by introspection, all his sensations and affections ; but the existence of tendency would escape his notice altogether, because introspection would not reveal it. In social life, on the other hand, where we can compare mind with mind, the manifestations of tendency are too evident to be overlooked. We know what various interests different people have ; we know what radically different opinions two sane persons, the one ' emotionally ' and the other ' rationally ' minded, will draw from the same set of arguments ; we know the ' professional atti- tude ' of the lawyer and physician and clergyman to the questions of the day. There are thus ample materials from which the idea of tendency may be formed, and good reasons for its persistence when it has once taken shape. We may summarise the results of this Section in two propositions, (i) Tendencies and the causes of tenden- Ii6 Conation and Attention cies are in themselves phenomena which belong exclu- sively to the domain of physiology and biology. There is no tendency-process to be found in consciousness, co-or- dinate with the processes of sensation and affection. (2) But a comparison of minds enables us to form an idea of mental types or constitutions ; and having learned from biology of the existence of tendencies, we are able to point to these as the conditions of mental constitution, and thus to account for fundamental differences between mind and mind which we could not otherwise have explained. It should be noted that the present is a signal instance of the way in which one science may render assistance to another in the solution of a difficult problem. If we had confined our discussion to the sphere of psychology pure and simple, and employed the introspective method only, we should have been obHged to give a mere statement of the facts of mental constitution, coupled with the admission that we had no explanation of them to offer. To avoid this necessity, we have asked what biology has to say of the influences exerted upon the organism by heredity and environ- ment. By thus putting the individual mind in the perspective of mental evolution, we are able to dispose of the difficulty in a satis- factory way. § 36. The Question of a Third Conscious Element. — We have seen that the facts of mental constitution are so patent that they must be recognised and accounted for ; but that introspection is, in the nature of things, incapable of furnishing the required explanation. Let us suppose, however, that a psychologist, confronted with the facts, does not think of going to biology for their reason, but attempts, in spite of all difficulties, to keep within the territory of psychology itself. If we follow out his argu- ment we shall be able to understand a common view of the § S^- Question of a Third Conscious Element 1 1 7 nature of mind, — a view different from that which we have ourselves adopted (§3), but still so widely prevalent among educated persons as to seem, doubtless, to many readers, almost self-evident. The psychologist of whom we are thinking will argue somewhat as follows. "We must, in every science, give the reason for what we observe. Now the reason for a sensation or an affection is obvious enough : it is always some observable change in the outside world or in con- sciousness, — the presentation of some stimulus or the arousal of some idea. But the reason for mental constitu- tion cannot be found in the action of stimulus : the consti- tution is there, before the stimulus acts, — as is shown by the effect of the beetle upon the entomologist. Neither can it be found in any preceding conscious processes : it is the business of mental constitution to decide, as it were, what our mental processes are to be, — entomological ideas or the feeling of disgust. No ! to give a reason for the direction or trend of consciousness as a whole, we must assume the existence of a permanent mind behind the stream of conscious processes. The manifestations of mental type are obvious ; but we cannot explain them in terms of physical or mental process. Hence we must infer that consciousness is something active and directive, able to shape and mould its own processes, and to origi- nate lines of thought or feeling." It is not too much to say that belief in the activity or spontaneity of mind is almost universal ; though the fact that the activity is, in the first place, not directly experi- enced as a conscious process, but inferred from the run or trend of conscious processes in general, is less univer- sally recognised. And the belief is by no means confined Ii8 Conation and Attention to popular thinking; it has had a marked influence upon psychology. Since our supposed psychologist has gone beyond introspection, and has drawn inferences from the phenomena of consciousness to the existence of something behind consciousness which introspec- tion does not reveal, he has been forced, in spite of his resolve, to leave the ground of psychology proper and to appeal for help to some science which is not psychology. The science to which he appeals is metaphysics (§ 3) ; our own appeal was made to biology. Metaphysics is the science which unifies and harmonises the principles and laws of all the other sciences. It follows from this that the discussions of metaphysics are always couched in general and abstract terms ; and that it is wrong to appeal to it for an ex- planation of a single concrete fact. Just as, within the hmits of psychology, we should not explain the appearance of a particular conscious process — an emotion of hope, e.g. — by appealing to mental constitution, and saying that the subject of the emotion was naturally sanguine, but should look round for the special con- ditions of this particular hope ; so, within the limits of science at large, we may not explain the appearance of a single phenomenon — the phenomenon of mental constitution — by appealing to meta- physics. Mental constitution is one particular scientific fact, and the emotion of hope is another. Both must be scientifically ex- plained, not metaphysically : both must be explained, that is, by a statement, in the terms of some special science, of the conditions under which they appear.^ Nevertheless, the metaphysical view is the common view. And the conviction of mankind at large, and its embodiment in cur- rent modes of expression, are usually strong enough to dominate our thought and language except on occasions of scientific investi- gation and discussion. The phrases which every one naturally 1 Whether or not the inference of mental activity is justifiable from the total sum of mental phenomena is a question which we can attempt to answer only at the conclusion of our examination of mind. We shall recur to it, therefore, in our final chapter (Ch. XV). § 3^- Question of a Third Conscious Element 1 19 uses in describing the phenomena of attention give a striking illustration of this fact. It is hardly possible to speak of attention without using such expressions as : "I turn my attention to," or '' I direct my attention upon," — expressions which, if understood literally, would make the ' I ' a source of spontaneous activity, and the ' attention ' a sort of lantern which the ' I ' holds in its hands. Let us now follow the argument of our imaginary psy- chologist a little farther. *' I am convinced," he may go on, *' that there is a permanent mind behind the various types of mind, behind the varying manifestations of mind in conscious processes ; and I am convinced that this mind is active and directive. Surely, this permanent and active mind must manifest its activity in some specific conscious process t Surely, there must be something other than sen- sations and affections to be found in mental experience .-^ Introspection must decide : and introspection does decide — in the affirmative. I find two conscious processes which give me a direct experience of activity or sponta- neity : conation and attention. My original inference, then, was plainly correct ; it is confirmed by introspection. Not only must we infer from the facts of mind that mind is active; we have a direct experience of mental activity in certain well-marked conscious processes." It is here that the belief in mental spontaneity begins to exert an influence upon scientific psychology. The argu- ment has taken on a new character : the venue is changed. Mental activity is no longer a metaphysical inference from the facts of mind ; it is announced as an item of mental experience. And it thus becomes the business of the psy- chologist carefully to examine the processes which are said to bear witness to its reality ; for the acceptance or rejection of a third elementary conscious process — an 120 Conation and Attention activity-process — is no light matter. The entire course of our subsequent psychological analysis, the fashion of our whole psychological system, will depend upon the decision to which our present enquiry leads. It is important that the difference between inferred activity (metaphysical) and experienced activity (psychological) should be fully understood. We have refused to iiifer activity from the facts of mental constitution, because we thought it better, on prin- ciple, to appeal to other special sciences before we asked assist- ance from metaphysics, and because biology answered our appeal, and enabled us to give a reasonable explanation of the phenomena. But we cannot refuse to accept the verdict of introspection, if introspection says that there is a mental process of an ^ active ' quality, a mental experience which cannot be described except by the term * activity ' or * spontaneity.' No sensation or affection has this ' active ' quality. And, physiologically, the existence of such a process is quite conceivable. Tendency may '■ set ' the cortex in a certain way, without arousing any conscious process ; just as we * set ' an alarum- clock, without causing the bell to sound. But when the catch is released, the bell rings ; and when the * set ' of the cortex is released, ' touched off ' in some way or other, a new mental process may be originated. The alleged active quality does not correspond to tendency, but to the ^ touch off' of tendency; not to the 'set' of the brain, but to the release of that set. It is not the fact of mental constitution which is becoming conscious when the new quaHty appears, but rather some specific realisation of mental con- stitution, say, the rush of an idea, aroused by external stimulus, into the channel which tendency has dug for it. Our rejection of the activity-inference, then, need not impair our impartiality with regard to the suggested activity-experience. If we find this, we can very well give it a place, without changing our definition of mind and consciousness. § 37. Conation. — 'Conation' is the general name given to the experience of effort or endeavour, in whatever con- § 37- Conation 121 nection it occurs. The * conative consciousness ' is a con- sciousness which consists principally, or at least very noticeably, of the experience of effort. What we have to do, then, is to collect instances of this experience, and to assure ourselves, by repeated analysis and reconstruc- tion (§ 4), that it does or does not contain some specific conscious process other than sensation and affection. The reason that the psychologist, who has inferred mental activity from the facts of mental constitution, points to the ex- perience of effort as a confirmation of his inference, is this. Effort is always involved, to some extent, in our experience of bodily exertion, continued bodily movement. Now the causes of bodily movement are not seldom beyond the reach of introspection : while in many cases we can trace, by careful introspection, the reason for a movement, there are many other cases in which we cannot. We should ourselves explain the facts by saying that many of the unconscious bodily tendencies are tendencies to movement, and that therefore the reasons for certain move- ments must be asked from biology and not from psychology. Our imagined psychologist has just the same facts before him that we have, and is just as little able as we are to explain them by appeal to introspection. But he refuses to ask biology to assist him in the solution of a psychological problem ; and there- fore sees in movement, not a change in the organism due to physi- cal causes, but an expression of spontaneous activity ; and in the conscious experience of effort which accompanies movement, not a complex of sensations and affection, but a specific mental process, the quality of which corresponds to that spontaneous activity. Or we may put the reason in another way. We speak not of the movements of our fellow-men, but of their ' actions.' Men- tal ^ activity ' is regarded as precisely hke the ' activity ' which the living human organism shows in its actions. Hence it is natural that the experience which accompanies action should be the first experience examined by those who expect to find evidence of mental activity in some definite conscious process. 122 Conation and Attention The experience of effort occurs in many different con- nections. It always accompanies violent or long-continued bodily movement, the movements, e.g.y of fencing or of dumb-bell exercises. It is contained in the experience of resistance, as when we hold a door against some one who is trying to force his way into the room, or 'bear up' against some 'pressing' care. It appears also in the states of mind (the 'consciousnesses') which we call im- pulse, wish, desire, longing, aspiration; and in the experi- ences of * trying to remember,' ' trying to make up one's mind,' etc. All these cases, then, must be introspectively examined. The first thing which introspection reveals is that effort is, like idea, a compound conscious process. Whether it contains a specific quality — a new conscious element — or not, it certainly comprises sensations and affection. The affection may be pleasantness or unpleasantness, accord- ing to the degree or amount of effort involved in the particular experience. The sensations are sensations of strain (tendinous), and the sensations which accompany movement (sensations of cutaneous and articular pressure, and of muscular contraction). No one will doubt that these sensations are present in the first three instances given of effort : fencing, dumb-bell exercise, hold- ing a door. Their presence in the other experiences mentioned may seem to be less clear. We must remember, however, that sensations may be aroused centrally (remembered or imagined) as well as peripherally (by the action of stimulus) ; and that they are just as much sensations in the former case as in the latter (§ 7). If, then, an actual movement and actual strain sensations can make up the experi- ence of effort, so can also remembered or imagined movement and remembered or imaghied strain sensations. Let the reader § 37- Conation 123 analyse his consciousness when next he thinks : " I do wish it was dinner-time ! " He will find that it contains a pleasantness, con- nected with the idea of dinner, and various ideas of himself going to his dinner, i,e., making some bodily exertion. If the wish is very strong, however, he will find more than this : there will be real beginnings of movement in his body, a real beginning of ris- ing from the chair, or a turn to the wash-stand, or a passing of the hand over the hair, — the imagined movements and imagined sensations will be mixed with actual movements and actual sensa- tions aroused by them. Or again : suppose that one were paint- ing a picture to illustrate the phrase : " I do long to go to Italy ! " One would paint a figure seated in a chair, leaning forward with clasped hands, the eyes eagerly and intently fixed. That is, one would paint with the assurance that the speaker would be seeing Italy 'in the mind's eye,' picturing the journey, and — more than that — actually starting to go, i.e., actually beginning the neces- sary movements. Here, too, we have imagined movement, cen- tral sensations of strain and pressure, mixed with actual sensations from muscle and tendon and joint. The forward inclination of the body and the eagerness of the eyes show that the ideas of the moment are pleasant. Once more : let the reader introspect when next he says : " If I only could remember that name ! " He will find that his whole body has been braced, during the attempt to remember ; that he has been frowning or wrinkling the forehead ; that his eyes have wandered all round the room ; per- haps, that he has from time to time held his breath and closed his eyes, to avoid any disturbance from outside. Along with all this has gone the unpleasant affection which comes with the feeling that he is baffled. In every instance, then, we find in effort an affective quality and a complex of organic sensations, — largely, sensations of ten- dinous strain. But, further, introspective analysis stops short at the discovery of these ingredients of effort. When we have taken the sensations and affection from the complex experience, there is nothing left : these are the only pro- 124 Conation and Attention cesses which introspection can find in it. And if we test analysis by synthesis, and try to reconstruct effort from organic sensations and affection, we are led to the same result ; these components are enough to give us the effort experience. Hence we have no alternative but to conclude that effort furnishes no evidence of a third conscious element, the supposed elementary process of activity. It cannot be too strongly urged that our introspection must be absolutely impartial, and extremely careful. Since the supposed activity-process is, by hypothesis, neither sensation nor affection, and since the rules which we possess for the use of introspection apply only to the examination of those two processes, we must employ the method in both of its possible forms : it may be that the activity-process would more nearly resemble sensation, or it may be that it would be more like an affection. When we inves- tigate effort as if it were sensation (§ 9), we come upon the com- plex of organic sensations referred to in the text ; when we investigate it as if it were affection (§ -7)^)^ we come upon the affective quality which accompanies those sensations. Introspec- tion gives no hint of any further process. Introspection must decide the matter : it is the final court of appeal. But it is reassuring to find that the result of introspec- tion is supported by outside evidence. This is of two kinds. (i) Those who beheve in the existence of a specific activity-pro- cess often allude to it as a ' sensation of effort ' or ' feehng of activity.' The expressions show that, even in their opinion, the experience of effort is a process which resembles the processes of sensation and affection. Why should it not be made up of these processes? (2) Intense effort is unpleasant, moderate effort pleasant, and minimal effort indifferent. This is just what we should expect if effort were composed of sensations : intense strain-sensations arise from excessive stimulation, and that is unpleasant ; moderately strong sensations from moderate stimula- tion, which is exhilarating and pleasant, etc. (§ 34). Here is § 38. The Nature and Forms of Atte7ition 125 evidence, from the general behaviour of sensations and affection, that effort is made up of those two processes. § 38. The Nature and Forms of Attention. — Effort is, however, not the only fact of mental experience which has been brought forward in support of the view that we have a specific conscious process corresponding to mental activity and spontaneity. This specific activity-process, which we have failed to discover in conation, is said to be present in attention, to be a constituent of the attentive consciousness. And at first sight the statement seems to be well founded. If ever we act spontaneously, it is surely when we lay down a novel to turn our attention to work; if ever we select for ourselves, it is when we ignore the whole crowd of impressions which our sense- organs are receiving, to attend to some one idea. In both these cases the activity-process must be present, if it exist at all. We must therefore examine attention, if possible, even more carefully than we have examined conation. If we cannot discover the activity experience here, we shall not discover it anywhere : attention is the only remaining fact to which the champions of activity can appeal, and it is a fact which, on the face of it, appears to furnish a strong confirmation of their view. We have more than once had occasion to remark that the idea to which we attend is made clearer, and lasts longer than other ideas. It is difficult to imagine how life could go on, if there were no such thing as attention. We should be at the mercy of every stimulus, internal or external, which was strong enough to arouse a conscious process ; sustained thought and continued occupation would be impossible ; consciousness would be a mixed medley of sensations and affections, strung together as the acci- dents of stimulation determined. The reality is very different. 126 Conation and Attention As I lean back in my chair to think out a psychological problem, I am subject to all sorts of sensory stimuli : the temperature of the room, the pressure of my clothes, the sight of various pieces of furniture, sounds from house and street, scents coming from carpet and wood- work, or borne in through the open window, etc. I could easily lapse into a reminiscent mood, letting these impres- sions suggest to me scenes from my past life. I could easily give the rein to my imagination, thinking of the further business of the day, anticipating some event which is to happen in the near future, etc. But I am perfectly well able to neglect all these distractions, and to devote mysfelf entirely to the one centrally aroused idea, — the idea of the problem which awaits solution. Attention has two forms. It may be what is called * passive ' or ' involuntary ' attention, or it may be ' active ' and ' voluntary ' attention. We cannot understand its real nature until we understand how these two forms differ, and what are the reasons for their occurrence. (i) Passive Attention. — There are , many occasions when we ' cannot help ' attending to an impression, — when a stimulus takes the attention by storm. A very^ loud sound will, almost infallibly, attract the attention, ' however absorbing the occupation of the time. So with movement : the animal or bird that crosses the landscape, the melody that rises and falls to a steady, uniform accom- paniment {i.e.^ that moves, while its accompaniment is stationary), the insect that crawls over our hand as we lie upon the grass, — all these constrain us to attend to them. Interesting things catch the attention, whether their interest come from their pleasantness or unpleasant- ness : a beautiful face arrests, our eyes, as a matter of course, and the newspaper accounts of fires and murders have a ' morbid fascination ' for us. Things which fit in with our present train of thought hold the attention : if § 38- TJie Nature and Forms of Attention 127 we are feeling ourselves ill used, we notice a thousand little annoyances that we should otherwise have let pass unnoticed, — if we are trying to prove a scientific theory, facts offer themselves to our attention whose significance we should otherwise have missed. Contrast, like move- ment, draws the attention: the one tree on a level plain, the one civilian's dress among a mass of military uniforms. So with strange things in familiar settings, and familiar things in strange settings : a new picture upon our study wall obtrudes itself upon us, and a few words of English, heard amid a crowd of holiday-making Germans, force our attention irresistibly upon the speaker. Any one of these conditions — contrast or movement ; a high intensity, novel quality, etc., of sensation ; the ' in- terest ' attaching to an impression ; a close relation of the idea aroused by the impression to the ideas forming the consciousness of the moment — is able to give a defi- nite direction to the attention ; an object which fulfils any one of them has the power of attracting the attention to itself. The attention is passive : we have to attend, what- ever grounds we may have for attending to something else. (2) Active Attention. — There are, however, many occa- sions when, so far from the idea's drawing and riveting our attention, it seems that we are holding our attention by main force upon the idea. A problem in geometry does not appeal to us as a thunder-clap does. The thunder-clap takes unquestioned possession of conscious- ness. The problem has only a divided claim upon the attention : there is a constant temptation to wander away from it and attend to something else. Only gradually, as we grow interested and 'absorbed,' — as the active atten- 128 Conation and Attention tion becomes passive, — does it gain that forcible hold over us which the thunder-clap has from the moment of its appearance in consciousness. In many of the psy- chological experiments which we have described, the object of attention is something which of itself, so far from attracting notice, would be eminently fitted to escape it : an obscure organic sensation, a minute quali- tative difference, etc. Attention to such an object is active attention. Let us see, now, how the psychologist who finds in attention the specific activity-process, the experience of mental spontaneity, regards these two forms of the atten- tive consciousness. " Both kinds of attention are alike," he will tell us, '* in the fact that they involve a change in our ideas. The idea attended to becomes the clearest, strongest and most permanent idea in consciousness. But the two kinds differ in this : that the change in ideas is brought about in the one case (passive attention) by the nature of the stimulus, while in the other case (active attention) it is the result of the mind's own activity, — the mind is moulding its ideas for its own purposes. There is clear evidence of the difference in the two ex- periences ; in passive attention we have the action of stimulus and the resulting change of ideas, — and noth- ing more; in active attention the mind's activity shows it- self in a definite mental process, an active process, which accompanies the change of ideas. Every one who has ever been actively attentive must be aware that he has experienced this definite process, of active quality." Here, then, are two facts for us to examine : the change of ideas, and the alleged activity-process. We will take the latter first. § 38. TJie Nature and Forms of Atte7ttio7i 129 (i) TJie Alleged Experience of Activity^ in Active Atten- tion. — If we try to ascertain, by the aid of introspection, the processes of which the attentive consciousness is com- posed, we come at once upon a mass of organic sensa- tions combined with affection into a total which very nearly resembles the conation of the previous section. There is a brace of the whole body ; the muscles are tense, ready for movement. More especially is there muscular tension in and about the head. If the object of attention is visual, the eyes are fixed steadily upon it, the eyebrows lowered, the scalp muscles tightened, the head settled squarely back upon the shoulders. If its object is auditory, the head is turned toward one side and thrust forward, the muscles which move the drum of the ear drawn taut, etc. In both instances the breath will be held, from time to time. All this means a complex of sensations from skin, muscle, sinew and joint, and an accompanying affection. It means an experience of effort ; and the only difference between this effort and the effort of the last Section is that this is, as a gen- eral rule, a more localised effort, whose components are not spread over the whole body in equal degree, but are centred round some particular sense-organ, eye or ear, etc. It is an effort which involves, not so much an adjustment of the whole muscular system, for locomotion, as an adjust- ment of a special organ for the best reception of stimulus. But it is none the less a form of conation, and may rightly be termed effort. And, again, introspection stops short at this point. When we have taken the sensations and affections from the * activity experience,' there is nothing left. There is no evidence of the third conscious process, however K 130 Conation and Attention often we may analyse and reconstruct in our search for it. More than this : introspection does not show any radical difference between active and passive attention. In pas- sive attention, too, we find muscular adjustment ; the turn of the head, the brace of the body, the fixing of the gaze, etc. True, the effort is not so great as it is in active attention ; but effort is undoubtedly present. It is less, because there is only one idea to be attended to, whereas in active attention several ideas are claimants for the attention. To sum up : There is only one attention, not two. The differ- ences between passive and active attention are differences of * degree' {iiutnbe}' of ideas, amount of effort), not of ' kind.' The terms * passive ' and ' active ' are misnomers. In passive attention, one idea takes unresisted possession of consciousness ; in active attention, there is a conflict of ideas for the favours of the atten- tion. In the latter case, the experience of effort is pronounced and well marked ; in the former it is present, but less strong. These are the only differences between the two forms of attention. (i) Passive Attention. — The reasons why certain things or attributes of things compel the attention, while others are left un- noticed, are, in the last resort, biological reasons. Some of them are of a general nature, applying to all living organisms alike. The animal which is to survive ifttcst attend to movement, contrast, very intensive impressions, etc. Hence we all attend to these ; attention to them is ingrained in our nervous constitution. It is a more special reason, of course, which accounts for the entomolo- gist's attention to the beetle. Here we have a particular animal with particular tendencies ; tendencies in the first place natural, and now confirmed by education and habit. (2) Active Attention. — ^The reasons for the phenomena of active attention are also, in the last resort, biological. As soon as an organism comes to have a system of sense-organs, each with its § 38- The Nature and Forms of Attention 131 peculiar attachment to the central nervous system, there must necessarily be times when its attention is called simultaneously by two different stimuli, — say, by a visual movement in front of it, and by a loud sound at its side. On the occurrence of this two- fold stimulation, the attention will travel in quick succession from source of movement to source of sound, and vice versa. (Whether it go first to the one or the other will depend upon circumstances, — upon the organism's previous experience, upon the intensity of the affection attaching to the two stimuh, etc.) The effort must plainly be greater than in the case of attention to either stimulus alone ; there is more bodily movement, adjustment of organs, etc., required. The more complex the organism becomes, the more frequently must it happen that stimuh are simultaneously presented, which cannot be attended to in this see-saw way, though both have strong claims upon the attention. Suppose, e.g., that I am sitting in my room, preparing for to-morrow's examination, and that I hear an alarm of fire in a neighbouring street. I cannot run from work to window, and from window to work, in quick succession ; if the work is to be done, the attention to it must be sustained. In a case like this, one claimant must give way to the other ; there is a real conflict. The cortex is * set ' in one part for work ; and this setting is reinforced by a large number of excitations, — the processes corresponding to ideas of my examination mark, the con- sequences of failure, etc. The cortex is ' set ' in another part for looking at the fire ; and this setting is reinforced by other excita- tions, — the processes corresponding to the ideas of a run in the fresh air, an exciting scene, the meeting with friends, etc. Which side wins depends upon the strength of the tendencies and of their temporary auxiliaries. Again, the effort experience must plainly be more distinct than in the case of attention to either stimulus alone. Additional ground for thinking that there is no radical differ- ence between passive and active attention is to be found in the fact that what begins as active attention may quite well end as passive. If we once ' settle down ' to our work, we may grow so ' sunk ' and ' absorbed ' in it that the fire-bell passes unnoticed. 132 Conation and Attention This fact can hardly be explained by those who assume the pres- ence of the activity-process in active attention ; for why should that process disappear, as attention is continued ? It may be remarked here that the reduction of active to passive attention is the condition of all thorough intellectual work. The passive attention of the animal or the child is the first stage of attentional development. Then comes the active attention, dur- ing which the mind is held by a certain stimulus, but held in face of opposition from other stimuli. Finally, this stimulus gains an unquestioned ascendency over its rivals, and the attention is once more passive. The stage of active attention is itself a stage of transition, of conflict, of waste of mental energy ; but it is the necessary preliminary to a stage of achievement. (2) TJie Change of Ideas in Attention. — Whenever we attend to an idea, certain changes are brought about in that idea and in the other ideas of the time, {a) The idea attended to becomes clearer and more distinct. If I am listening to a four-part choriis, and suddenly give my full attention to the tenors, the tenor part stands out dis- tinctly from the whole mass of sound. It does not become stronger, louder ; but its tone qualities are detached from the tone qualities of the other parts. (^) Sometimes, how- ever, the idea attended to does increase in intensity. A very faint light grows noticeably brighter, as we attend to it ; a very faint sound, noticeably louder, {c) The other ideas of which consciousness is composed are rendered less distinct and, apparently, weaker than they previously were. As we listen to the tenor part, the three other parts blur, and fade out. The activity-theory explained these three facts as the effects of mental activity ; the mind, of its own accord, assisted some ideas and repressed others. We have been unable to find an activity- process, and have accounted for the manifestations of attention in § 3 8. TJie NaUire and Forms of Attention 133 general by emphasising the natural Selectiveness ' (§ 35) of the nervous system, the presence of organic tendencies. We have now to ask for the special physiological conditions of these three manifestations of attention. They appear both in passive and active attention. Physiologists have discovered that one nerve-cell can influence another in two different ways. It can inhibit or check the pro- cesses going on in the other, or it can facilitate or reinforce them. We do not know precisely how these influences are exerted ; but there can be no question that they exist. During attention, both of them appear to be at work. There is facilitation or reinforce- ment of cerebral function on the one hand (the idea attended to becomes clearer or stronger); there is widespread inhibition of cerebral function on the other hand (the remaining ideas grow dim and weak). It is natural to look for the origin of the reinforcing and inhib- itory processes in the frontal lobes, the supreme co-ordinating centre of the brain. However they arise, we should suppose that they arise there. Now we have seen that an excitation of the frontal lobes is the necessary condition of the affective processes. Our supposition will, then, be greatly strengthened, if we can find any close relation between affection and attention as facts of men- tal experience. We find, as a matter of fact, that it is only when we attend to im- pressions that we feel them to be pleasant or unpleasant. Impres- sions which are not attended to are indifferent. If we can ' forget ' our toothache, z>., find something more interesting and absorbing, and so cease to attend to the tooth, the unpleasantness vanishes. Impressions which have grown habitual, /.- — beat — beat — beat ; > — beat — beat — beat ; beat ) beat ) and the observer is required to say whether the two groups are equal or unequal. He must not count, of course ; counting would mean that attention was given to each beat separately, and, there- fore, that the series was apprehended by successive attentions, and not by * an ' attention. Accurate judgment is impossible in the case of series which consist of more than eight impressions. But just as in the previous experiments a word of four letters was equivalent, for the attention, to a single letter, so here a group of impressions may be equivalent, for the attention, to a single impression. We have already referred to the influence of rhythm in judgments passed upon the relations of auditory stimuli (§ 29). Now when we listen to our series of metronome beats, it is impos- sible to avoid throwing them into a more or less complex rhythm. If the 8 impressions which constitute an experimental series are single beats, they are apprehended not as 8 but as 4 {beat beat, beat beat. If eat beat, t?eat beat ; not beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat) ; so that, for the attention, they are 4 impres- sions. The limits of the grasp of attention lie between 8 impres- sions of 2 beats each (16 beats in all) and 5 impressions of 8 beats each (40 in all) . The 8 beats in the latter case are broken up into 4 pairs, accented as trochees {cf. § 47). The range of affection we found to be coextensive with con- sciousness. It is evident that the same cannot be said of the § 42. TJie Range of Attention 147 range of attention. The reason for this apparent anomaly is to be looked for in the fact (§ 2)Z) ^^^^ ^^ affection attaching to a single idea or group of ideas radiates from this to the other ideas of which consciousness is composed, even if they are in them- selves indifferent. Attention does not radiate from the objects attended to. — Cf. what is said of the composition of the feeling, §56. PART II CHAPTER VII Perception and Idea § 43. Sensation, Perception and Idea. — We have hitherto used the terms 'perception' and 'idea' indifferently, to sig- nify a complex of sensations ; and we have implied that such a complex process becomes, under certain conditions, a single item of mental experience, forms a coherent whole, — so that we can speak of its intensity, duration, etc., quite apart from the intensity or duration of the element- ary processes which enter into it. We must now ask how these complexes are formed ; which of the four attributes of sensation are of the greatest importance for their production ; and under what circumstances they acquire their unity or singleness for mental experience. There is no fundamental psychological difference between the perception and the idea. It is customary to speak of ' percep- tion ' when the majority of the simple processes in the complex are the result of stimulation of a sense-organ, i.e., are peripherally aroused, and of ' idea ' when the greater number are the result of an excitation within the brain cortex, i.e., are centrally aroused. If I have a table before me, and my eyes open, I am said to ' per- ceive ' the table ; if I close my eyes, and think of what I saw, to have an ' idea ' of the table. But we have seen that the sensations aroused centrally do not differ as psychological processes from those aroused peripherally (§ 7). Hence although we might be tempted for convenience' sake to follow^ the common usage, — to employ ' perception ' to denote what is now before us, and 148 § 43- Sensation^ Perception and Idea 149 '■ idea ' to denote what is remembered or imagined, — we should be obhged constantly to remind ourselves that, in principle, the two processes are one and the same. And the danger of forget- ting this would far outweigh the convenience of separating the terms. In what follows, therefore, as in what has preceded, we shall use the words indiscriminately. We classified sensations in the first place by reference to the sense-organs from v^hich they proceed, and second- arily by reference to the stimuli w^hich arouse them. We might now classify ideas in the same way, beginning with the great groups originated in a sense department (visual, auditory, olfactory, etc.), and subdividing these by the help of differences of stimulation within a department (ideas of colour, of brightness, of tone, of noise, etc.). But such a classification would be misleading. The sense- organs are, as a matter of fact, not separate instruments : they are instruments in the service of a single organism, and they are connected with one another, by way of the brain. So long as we are enquiring into the nature and number of the elementary conscious processes (§ 4), we may regard each group of sensations as separate and independent, and each member of a group as an individual process, possessed of its own attributes. But when we come to consider sensations as elements in ideas, we find, naturally enough, but little show of independence and individuality. The particular sensation, regarded apart from other sensations, is the product of scientific analysis, an abstraction from actual mental experience : the simplest item oj that experience is the idea. It was necessary for us, as psychologists, to see how the sense-organs would work if they were working separately. That donCj how- 150 Perception and Idea ever, we must go on to enquire how they really do work together for the benefit of the organism. We never have, then, a perfectly simple mental experi- ence : consciousness is never composed of a single sensa- tion. Two points may be noticed, (i) On the one hand, several sensations, from different sense departments, may be combined into one idea. The contributions made by a particular sense department will, it is true, be predomi- nant in the idea; but the character of the whole process will nevertheless depend upon all the contributions sent in from the different departments concerned. My idea of lemonade is predominantly an idea of taste. But taste alone could not give me an idea of lemonade ; there must be added to the taste qualities, sweet and acid, a pressure, a scent, a colour, a movement of gas-bubbles, etc. My idea of an arm-chair is predominantly visual, a picture of the chair ; but it contains also the idea of softness, of the sitting position, etc., — elements of movement and press- ure. (2) On the other hand, not every sensation is called upon to assist, in equal measure, in the formation of every kind of idea. There is a division of labour. Thus visual sensations, which have the attribute of extent, are pre- eminently concerned in the formation of extensive (spatial) ideas ; auditory sensations, which have no spatial attribute, contribute nothing directly to our ideas of space. We ' see ' how far off a thing is, in what direction it lies, how large it is, what form it has, etc. Auditory sensations, however, possess a well-marked duration ; they begin abruptly and cease abruptly with the beginning and cessa- tion of stimulus ; there is but little auditory after-image. This fact, in connection with the impossibility of their spatial arrangement, gives them an especial fitness to § 43- Sensatioiiy Perception and Idea 151 arouse temporal ideas, ideas of frequency, succession, rhythm, etc. In all such cases we have the elevation of one attribute of sensation at the expense of others ; in the cases quoted, quality, the core or * self ' of the sensation, becomes subordinate to extent or duration in the idea. In others, quality may be the predominant attribute. We shall classify ideas, for the purposes of the present chapter, as extensive, tejnporal and qualitative. And we may confine ourselves to the consideration of those ideas which are built up from sensations of pressure (cutane- ous, articular and muscular), of tone and of brightness. Pressure gives us all three classes of ideas in their earliest, most rudimentary form : the eye and the ear furnish the same ideas at their highest level of development. The two primitive sense qualities are, in all probability, those of pressure and pain (§ 21). Pain, from its very nature, has but a small part to play in the formation of ideas. Its appearance is an indication that some sense-organ is being damaged, and it is always unpleasant. Hence a consciousness composed of pain ideas could accompany only a pathological bodily state, — a state of localised injury and general nervous deterioration, a state in which catabolic processes had the upper hand in a particular organ and in the nervous system generally. If this bodily state and this consciousness were of frequent occurrence, the organ- ism's life would be short.^ Pressure, on the other hand, may be expected to form the foundation for all classes of ideas. It is a primitive sensation, 1 It may be objected that invalids whose life is a continual pain often live to a good old age. But it must be remembered that they are cared for in a way which is unknown to the lower animals; that their pain is mitigated by medical treatment; and that they are capable of looking forward to recovery (§ 40), while the animal by its very constitution cannot anticipate the future. *' While there's life, there's hope " holds only of mankind, because mankind alone can form a conscious plan of life; while, on the other hand, the fact that hope is possible robs pain of a part of its destructiveness. 152 Perception and Idea the first material out of which an idea can be shaped. It pos- sesses all four sensation attributes : quality, intensity, extent, and duration. And its quality is common to several great groups of sensory nerves, — nerves of skin, mucous membrane, muscle and joint. We find, accordingly, that tactual ideas — ideas built up from pressure sensations, cutaneous and organic — are of all three kinds : extensive, temporal and qualitative. Since it is endowed with the spatial attribute of extent, pressure can naturally serve as the basis of the various spatial ideas : ideas of size, direction, form, position, etc. Since it is the quality aroused by movement of a limb, by friction of the articular surfaces against each other, it can serve as the basis of temporal ideas : ideas of rhythm, of rapidity of movement, etc. And though it is not qualitatively variable, though, i.e., it remains the same 'pressure' whether it proceed from muscle or joint or skin, it blends with other quali- ties from other sense departments to form qualitative ideas : with organic sensations to form ideas of hardness, resistance, etc. (§ 16), with taste sensations to form ideas of astringency, pun- gency, etc. (§15). Vision and audition, the senses which are richest in sensation qualities, may also be expected to give rise to a great variety of ideas. These senses stand at the other extreme of the de- velopmental series from that occupied by pressure and pain ; they are the highest products of mental evolution in the sphere of sense. Visual and auditory ideas are cast in the same mould as tactual, formed in the same way and used for the same general purposes. But they are more ' finished ' and at the same time more comprehensive. Whenever a simultaneous appeal is made to the two groups, the final decision rests with vision and audition : we estimate size by look, and not by ' feel ' ; we take our rhythm in dancing from the music rather than from the sensation com- plexes set up by bodily movement. Having considered the ideas formed from the most simple and the most highly differentiated sense materials, we shall have no need to consider any others. No sensations, except those of eye and skin, have the spatial attribute of extent. No sensations, ex- § 43- Sensation^ Perception and Idea 153 cept those of hearing and pressure, possess a well-marked and clear-cut duration. No other sense, not even that of smell, is so rich in qualities as are vision and audition. Hence when we have discussed our three groups of ideas in these three departments, we shall have given an outline of the formation of ideas in general.^ 'But what of intensive ideas?' it may be asked. ' If the attri- butes of quality, duration and extent form the nucleus round which certain ideas gather, why cannot intensity serve as the nucleus of certain other ideas ? ' The answer is to be found partly in the nature of the attributes themselves, partly in the adjustment of the organic functions to the needs of practical life. Quality, we have said, is the absolute and individual attribute of sensation ; the others are relative or comparative, common to all sensations alike (§ 26). Quality, then, will naturally stand alone ; qualitative ideas are a matter of course. My idea of lemonade is an idea built up from qualities of sensation ; it does not matter how long those qualities last, or how much lemonade there is, or into how wide a glass it is poured. My perception of a musical chord is qualitative, again ; duration and intensity do not occur to me, as I listen to it, — or, if they occur, are entirely subordinate to the quality of the total impression. Lemonade and the chord ^-^-^ are, first of all, themselves (§ 8) ; they are not so much of something, but something, different from other things. But the ' how large ' and ' how long ' of things are often im- portant. Hence extent and duration are made absolute, by reference to an arbitrarily selected unit, - — centimetre, second, — for the purposes of everyday life. We must know at what hour a train goes, how many go in the course of a day, at what rate they run, etc. We must know how many miles it is to the next town, 1 Temperature sensations have the attribute of extent (§ 8). But as the temperature sensations which enter into extensive ideas are always combined with pressure, we shall not discuss them separately. 1^4 Perception and Idea in what direction the town hes, what its size is, how its streets are planned, etc. The temporal and spatial attributes of sensa- tion thus become, as it were, detached in the idea from the qualities which they accompany : we can compare the distance from us of a sight and a sound, saying that " that voice comes from the other side of the wall " ; we can compare the duration of a taste and a pressure, or the rate of recurrence of tones and flashes. The qualities are here irrelevant : duration and distance are in the foreground. Intensity, however, has not been able to shake itself free of quality, as duration and extent, ' time ' and ' space,' have done. Intensity is always thought of as the intensity of a particular quality ; it would be meaningless to compare the intensities of sunlight and thunder-clap. Mankind has had no need to define intensity, to set up an intensive standard, as it has to define dura- tions and extents. It is enough, in most cases, to know that a light is ' fairly bright ' ; a taste ' too sweet ' ; a sound ' exceedingly faint.' Even to-day physics has no satisfactory unit either of light or of sound. Commerce has, it is true, developed a scale of weights, which can be looked upon as varying intensities of press- ure or of the complex of pressure and strain ; and we accord- ingly possess the ideas of a ' pound,' a ' kilogramme,' etc. But these ideas are of a very simple nature. They are confined to a single group of sensation qualities, and their names hardly denote more than degrees of se?tsatio?t intensity. They may, therefore, be left out of account here. I. Extensive Ideas § 44. Locality or Position. — If we are pressed upon dif- ferent parts of the body, e.g., upon arm and forehead, we are able to indicate very exactly, even when the eyes are closed, the portion of skin affected : we have a clear idea of the locality of cutaneous pressure. As we sit looking at the wall opposite us, we have an equally clear idea of the position of each of the repeated patterns of the paper. § 44- Locality or Position 155 And again, if we are suddenly required to shut our eyes and describe the position of our arms, or to state the posi- tion of some part of our body which we cannot see, e.g., of a leg stretched under the table, we find no difficulty in the task : we can form a clear idea of locality or position from sensations of articular pressure. Method. — (i) Two methods have been employed to test the accuracy of cutaneous localisation, {a) The subject sits, with closed eyes, at a low table. His left arm is laid out, palm upwards, upon the table, and he holds a charcoal pencil in his right hand. The experimenter has a similar pencil, and sets it down for a moment upon the subject's left wrist : the subject, as soon as the pressure is removed, sets his own pencil down upon the same wrist, striking as nearly as possible the spot previously stimulated. Both pencils leave a mark. Hence if the subject has localised inaccurately, we can measure the amount of his mistake, and compare it with the mistakes made by other persons, or by the same individual at other parts of the skin, {b) The object of the second method is to determine how accurately we can localise within one and the same area. The two points of a pair of drawing-compasses are set down together upon the skin. If the distance between them is very small, they are not perceived to be two, but are taken for a single point. The distance separating them must be gradually increased. With a certain separation, they are perceived to be two, i.e., separately locahsed. When the points are applied in succession (first method), the average error of localisation on the wrist is from 5 to 10 mm. The subject thinks that he has struck the spot previously stim- ulated, when his pencil is in reahty this small distance to one side of the spot. The distance between simultaneously applied com- pass points (second method) which enables us just to perceive their difference, i.e., to locahse them differently, varies for different portions of the skin and for points of different sharpness. The results obtained by the use of exceedingly fine points are : on 156 Perception and Idea the finger-tip, .1 mm. ; on the cheek, .5 mm. ; on the upper arm, .75 mm. ; on the back, 5 mm. (2) The just noticeable difference of visual position at the centre of the field of vision would be that of objects separated by the minimal visual extent, .005 mm. (§ 24). If the objects are situated in the outlying portions of the field, and their position observed in ' indirect vision,' z>., while the gaze is still directed upon the central portion, our discrimination of their position is far less accurate. To assure yourself of this, use the method described in § 24 ; but hang the white threads at the right or left end of the grey screen, while you look steadily at a black mark placed at its centre. (3) The just noticeable difference in the position of a Hmb, the least noticeable difference of ^ articular position,' is smallest in the case of the largest joints. By the shoulder we can perceive a difference of position when the arm has been moved through a dis- tance of .2° ; by the wrist no difference of position is perceptible until the hand has moved through .3° (the degrees are degrees of arc described by the moved member with shoulder or wrist as centre). The values for hip and ankle are, .5° and 1° respectively. Special instruments are required for experiments in this department ; the member to be moved must be laid out upon a support, and the support must be movable in various directions without any jar and without any alterations in the pressures and strains proceeding from the supported member at the beginning of the experiment. The physiological conditions of localisation have not as yet been satisfactorily made out. If we transplant a piece of skin from one part of the body to another, the trans- planted piece carries its old locality v^ith it. Thus a piece transplanted from the thigh to the back v^ould still give rise, for some little time, to thigh-impressions. Not until it has thoroughly settled down in its new surroundings does it take on their local character. In the same way, the displacement of a group of nervous end-organs from § 44- Locality or Position 157 one part of the retina to another carries with it a displace- ment of objects in the field of vision, which persists until the displaced organs have taken root again, and acquired a new local value. In some manner, which we do not as yet fully understand, the sense-organ mirrors, in its differ- ent parts, the different positions of external objects. But we not only localise : we consciously localise, i.e., have an idea of locality. To explain this fact it is necessary to assume that the sensations from skin, retina and articu- lar surface possess each a certain local mark or local sign, — some conscious peculiarity which gives them a definite space value, within the field of touch or vision. Any sen- sation from these three organs has, as a sensation, inten- sity, quality, extent and duration ; as a constituent of an extensive idea, it must possess local signature as well. What the local sign is, in any given case, depends upon mental constitution. Local Signs : (i) Skin. — Not only is the skin, physiologically regarded, a localising organ : the organism is endowed with reflex locaHsing movements. If a spot of skin is irritated, hand or foot moves to it reflexly, in obedience to purely physiological laws. Out of this unconscious localisation the conscious local mark arises, by the following stages, {a) The movement of hand or foot, though reflexly set up, occasions organic sensations in joint, tendon, etc. ; so that definite groups of organic sensations become connected with pressures upon particular parts of the body. The local sign may consist, therefore, of remembered organic sensa- tions, {b^ The reflex movement towards the irritated spot will usually be seen ; so that the local sign may contain a visual sensa- tion, a picture of the part touched, as weU as organic sensations. (<:) The organic sensations may pass unnoticed, owing to the habitual nature of the movement. The local sign of a pressure will then be a sensation of a quite different order, — a sensation of 158 Perception and Idea sight. (^) Finally, the visual picture itself may disappear, and its place be taken by a word, the name of the part of the body pressed. Often enough, when we say that we remember an occur- rence, we remember only the form of words which describes it. So now, when I am touched upon the arm, there flashes up in my mind the word ' arm,' and this word is the local sign of the pressure. Method. — Have yourself touched at different parts of the skin. Introspect very carefully, to discover of what processes your own system of local signs is composed. In the first few trials, it may seem to you that the pressure itself has a different quahty in the different cases. But if you look closely, you will come upon the real local sign, probably a visual picture or a word. Vision is not essential for cutaneous local signature. Those who are born bhnd acquire an idea of the locality of pressures. Their local sign may be {a) a complex of organic sensations ; (^) a tactual map or picture of the part touched, plus the organic sensations ; {c) the tactual map alone ; or (^) a word. The '■ tac- tual picture ' is aroused and perfected by movement of the fingers over the touched spot ; its components would be extent of press- ure, i.e., the distance travelled over by the finger before it came to the edge of limb or trunk, certain hardnesses or softnesses of surface, etc. It is not easy for us, who see, to form an idea of such a ' picture ' ; but it undoubtedly exists. (2) Joint. — The local sign is here either {a) sl complex of organic and pressure sensations, aroused by the tension of skin and tendons and the contraction of muscle ; (/5) a complex of these and visual sensations; {e) visual sensations; or (d) a word. (3) £ye. — It has been suggested that the original local marks of the retina were also {a) organic sensations. The eyes turn re- flexly towards an object which has suddenly appeared in the field of vision, so that the object is brought opposite to the centres of the retinae, the spots of clearest vision. These reflex movements would give rise to sensations of strain and contraction, and the local mark would accordingly become conscious in the form of remembered organic sensations. There can be little doubt that these sensations are capable of the delicate gradation which would § 44- Locality or Position 159 be necessary if they were to form the basis of the visual idea of locahty. We know, however, (/;) that the same stimulus occasions different sensations, according to the part of the retina upon which it acts. What is red to the centre of the retina becomes bluish as it moves outwards from the centre, and finally, at the extreme edge of the field of vision, passes into black. We do not notice any differences of quality within a field of colour, because we have often moved our eyes over the entire surface of such fields, and thus learned that objective differences do not exist. But it may be, nevertheless, that they constitute the original local signature of the eye. These ideas of locality are ideas of the position of an impression upon an extended surface. We perceive the place of a pressure upon the surface of the body, the posi- tion of a particular pattern upon the extent of wall before us, the position of a limb within a plane of movement. But we possess other ideas of locality, ideas of the position of an object in three-dimensional space, which include the idea of distance from our own body. We can find where a thing is, in the dark, by stretching out our hand towards it; we can estimate the distance of a visual object from ourselves, or from some other object which we say is be- fore or behind it. The tactual idea of locality, in this second sense, is not hard to explain ; the visual idea has been variously accounted for. The Third DiJucnsion : (i) Tactual Idea. — The tactual idea of distance in the third dimension arises from the connection of extents of cutaneous pressure with the articular sensations called out by movement. The whole body or a bodily member moves towards the object, and comes into contact with it. Hence we have the tactual measures of distance, — foot, span, cubit, etc. (2) Visual Idea. — The corresponding visual idea has been explained in two ways, {a) The two eyes look at the same i6o Perception and Idea object in space from two slightly different points of view. We can take two photographs of the object from these points of view, placing a camera where each eye would be. Let us paste these photographs side by side upon a strip of cardboard, and lay the strip in a stereoscope, so that the photograph taken by the right hand camera is presented to the right eye and the other to the left. We see one picture only ; but this picture is very different from either of the separate photographs. It looks solid : we have an illusion of tridimensionality. From this it has been argued that we perceive distance because the pictures formed upon the two retinae by the same object are different ; and that we perceive differences of distance, because the differences between the two pictures increase or decrease, according as the object is near or far. On this view, the perception of tridimensional space follows directly from the bodily conditions of vision ; it is a necessary consequence of the double structure and single function of the organ of sight. Because we see one thing with two eyes, we see it as a solid, {b) Another hypothesis lays stress upon the strain sensations which proceed from the tendons by which the eye- muscles are attached to the eyeball. The strain sensations differ in intensity, according as the object upon which the eyes are ' converged,' i.e., to which they are both directed, is situated at a greater or less distance from the body. The nearer the object, the greater the strain of ocular convergence ; the more remote the object, the less the strain. In this way, it is said, intensities of strain furnish a measure of the amount of distance. Method. — To test the discrimination of the eye for distances in depth, we hang a fine black thread midway between the face and a white screen or wall. The thread is gradually moved back- wards or forwards, by an assistant, until a difference of position (distance) is perceived. The subject should close his eyes dur- ing the interval between experiment and experiment, and during the time when the assistant is altering the position of the thread in a given experiment. On opening the eyes, he should look first at the white screen, and from that to the thread : the posi- tion of the eyes and strain of the eye muscles will thus be the same at the beginning of each experiment. The just noticeable § 44- Locality or Position i6i difference of ocular convergence is one-fiftieth of the distance of the thread from the observing eyes ((/. the expression of Weber's law for strain sensations : §§27, 28). It is noteworthy that with a very slight degree of ocular convergence, i.e., when the thread hangs at a considerable distance from the eye, this difference of one-fiftieth corresponds to the least difference of ^ position which the eye can perceive on a plane surface. In concrete terms, if the thread is moved from a distance, say, of 200 cm. to one of 196 cm. (one-fiftieth nearer), the distance separating the two pict- ures which it throws on each retina in its two positions is .005 mm. {cf. Fig. 6). This fact seems to show that the sensations aroused by eye move- ments are capable of serving as the conscious local signs of visual sen- sations. It is impossible, in the present state of our knowledge, to decide between the two hypotheses given above. It may be that both contain a part of the truth, — that eye movement is the primary factor in the idea, but that it is assisted by the difference between the two retinal images. Certainly, the importance of movement for the tactual idea of locality suggests that eye movement may be of similar importance in the sphere of sight. And the number and arrangement of the twelve eye muscles lead us to ascribe some important functions to them, — just as the number and arrangement of the six semicircular canals indicate that they play M Fig. 6. — The eyes are converged upon the thread a; the thread throws two images upon the two spots of clearest vision, <:, c' . If the eyes are now converged upon the thread at b., the yellow spots will move to the positions ., travel a certain distance, before its movement is remarked at all. And if the pressure is very light, or the movement very slow, we may have no idea of movement ; the first local sign may be forgotten when the next is reached. The distance passed over on the fore- arm before movement is noticed may amount to 10 mm. Method. — Move a charcoal point lightly in different directions over the skin of wrist or forearm, keeping the rate of movement as uniform as you can. Measure the distance which the point travels, in each case, before the subject cries out that it is moving. The distance will be greater if you move it upwards or downwards than if you move it across the limb. This is because localisation, 1^0 Pejxeption and Idea conscious or unconscious (physiological), is less accurate upon the long axis of the body; the local signs are less thickly strewn, so to speak, than they are upon the short axis. And this, in its turn, is because we increase more in height than in breadth as we grow : we grow ' up.' Hence the nerve-endings in the skin are pulled further apart in the up and down directions than they are in the transverse. (2) Joint. — The idea of movement which is derived from articular sensations is always the idea of a movement of our own body or some part of it. The just noticeable extent of movement is, of course, the distance which the limb must travel to arrive at a just noticeably different position (§ 44). Method. — Lay a board, about 50 cm. long and 15 cm. wide, upon a low table. Place the forearm, palm upwards, upon the board, with the elbow projecting just beyond its near end. Close 3^our eyes. Let an assistant raise the far end very carefully and gradually. Measure the height from the table to which the board may be raised before you have any perception of movement from the elbow-joint. To avoid jar at starting, it is best to have the near end of the board hinged to the table, and its far end raised by a cord running through a pulley. (3) Eye. — The visual idea of extent of movement is differ- ently formed, according as the eyes themselves move or remain stationary. (yd) If the eyes are fixed, visual movement, like cutaneous, can be estimated only in cases where the sensations first aroused, or their after-images or memories, are still running their course in consciousness when the last make their appearance. The eye has, here as always, the advantage of the skin : retinal sensations per- sist in after-images for longer than cutaneous, and after-images are more reliable than memories. The just noticeable movement, for the unmoved eyes, is the same as the just noticeable difference of visual position (§ 44). (Ji) But the head or eyes may move, following the moving stimulus. In this case, the retinal image of the object is kept constantly upon the same portion of the retina, instead of passing from one portion to another. Here, the estimation of movement § 46. Extent of Moveme^it 171 is of the articular type : the eyes turn in their sockets, or the head upon the shoulders, as the forearm turns in the elbow-joint. Estimation in terms of eye movement is very uncertain, unless there is somewhere in the field of vision a fixed point, to which we may refer when making it. The fixed point serves the same pur- pose under these circumstances as the persistence of the first sensation does when the eyes are not moved, or when we are form- ing our idea from cutaneous sensations. In the latter cases, the stimulus is spread over all points of its course at once : the move- ment, from starting-point to finish, is filled up with memory, after- image or peripheral sensation. In the present instance we have the fixed object as starting-point, and the final position of the moving object as finishing-point; while the fact of movement it- self is perceived from the series of pressure sensations aroused by the turn of the eyeballs in their sockets, and of strain sensations aroused by changes of ocular convergence. It may seem strange that eye movement, which is so important in other connections (eye measurement and convergence), should prove to be of such slight assistance in the formation of the idea of the extent of movement. In reality, it is just because of these other functions that the strain sensations are unable to help us now. In eye measurement, the eye moves from a fixed point and sweeps over a line ; in convergence, the eyes rest upon a certain fixed point at a definite distance from the body. If we take away the fixed point, as beginning or finishing point of movement, the sensations set up around the eyeball are uncertain guides. Move- ments of the eyes to and fro are very frequent, and very rarely remarked. Hence without the fixed point of reference we may make grave mistakes, even if we base our idea upon the true artic- ular sensations produced by rotation of the head : unnoticed move- ments of the eyes may have added something to or subtracted something from the result of head movement. Method. — The following experiment shows the uncertainty of estimation of extent of movement when the eyes are allowed to move, in the absence of a fixed point of reference. Seat your- self in a dark room. An assistant holds a dark lantern, by which he can throw a faint spot of Kght on the wall before you. The 1/2 Perception and Idea spot is shown at irregular intervals and for different lengths of time; sometimes it is still, sometimes moved slowly to or fro. You will find that your judgments of its stationariness and move- ment are frequently incorrect. II. Temporal Ideas § 47. Rhythm. — When we walk, we have a regular alternation of strong and weak sensation complexes. We are resting, perhaps, on the left foot. This means a mass of strong pressures on the sole of that foot, a severe press- ure in knee and hip, etc. The right foot swings forward. This means a complex of weak pressures (after-images, pressure of boot) from the sole of that foot, and a per- ception of movement — with relaxation of pressure, how- ever — in knee and hip. The right foot is then set down: strong. The left leg swings forward : weak. The left foot comes down again : strong, — and so on. A similar alternation is observable in respiration. We inspire, short ; expire, long ; inspire, short ; etc. These alterna- tions of strong and weak, long and short sensation com- plexes are the basis of the idea of rhythm. The auditory idea of rhythm has been far more highly developed than the tactual. We cannot listen to any fairly rapid succession of sounds without putting rhythm into it (§ 42). Sounds are, indeed, better material for the idea of rhythm than are tactual complexes ; for the limbs are fixed to the trunk, and can therefore do no more than oscillate to and fro, pendulum fashion, giving of necessity the most rudimentary form of rhythm, — beat' beat, beat' beat, — whereas a series of sounds can be divided into groups of any complexity. The rhythm : beat" beat beat, beat' beat beat, beat" beat beat, beat' beat beat, could § 47' Rhytinn 173 not be formed from tactual impressions, but is easily con- structed when we have a succession of free stimuli, and can place the changes of intensity at any desired point in the succession. Hence it is intelligible that, in cases of conflict, auditory rhythm should outweigh tactual. When we think of the rhythm of walk- ing, we do so as a rule under the form : left' right, left' right, etc., and not under the form : press' swing, press' swing, etc., as given above. This is because we think of walking in terms of hearing, we listen to an imaginary march. The swing is noiseless ; and the accent is consequently placed upon one of the two treads. The simplest auditory rhythms are successions of two or three beats, one of which is stronger than the other or than the other two. The poetical 'feet,' iambus, trochee, dactyl and anapaest, are instances of the four possible forms which these simplest rhythms may take : w_, — w, — ww, ww — The musical 'measure,' which corresponds to the poetical foot, may be far more complicated. Thus we may have twelve impressions, accented as follows : I II I I in music written, perhaps, ff J) pf p 2lf P f P Pf P or accented in this way III I II I 9 p p f p ^ p p f f p p I III J I I I in music written, perhaps, / pp pp p pp pp pf pp pp p pp pp P P P P P P p p p p p p 1/4 Perception a7id Idea i.e., a succession of four or six simple rhythmical forms, with four degrees of accent or intensity. Above the foot stands the line or verse ; and above the measure the phrase. These represent a further development of the audi- tory idea of rhythm ; they are rhythmical wholes, just as are the foot or measure, but rhythmical wholes of a higher order. Neither can contain more than six feet or measures : a seven-footed line or a seven- measured phrase falls to pieces, ceases to be rhythmical. Once more : above the verse comes the stanza ; and above the phrase stands the period. These are rhythmical wholes of a still higher order. Neither can contain more than five verses or phrases; as a general rule, neither contains more than four. Method. — Set a metronome beating, with an interval of about a quarter of a second between stroke and stroke. Try to throw the beats into all the different possible rhythms, trochaic, iambic, etc. You will find it quite easy to change from rhythm to rhythm, especially if you use movement to assist you, — moving foot or hand when the beats come which you wish to emphasise. Then see how complex a foot or measure you can construct in the vari- ous rhythms. We found in § 42 that the attention could grasp 40 metronome beats as a single whole, if these were apprehended as 5 impres- sions of 8 beats each. This is the extreme range of attention, under experimental conditions. The measure or foot is here a trochee; the verse or phrase contains four feet or measures accented as follows : v . ; . ;■ . ; . I I t I I and the stanza or period contains five verses or phrases. § 48. Rate of Movement. — Our estimation of the rate, as of the extent, of movement may be founded upon sensa- tions from skin, joint or eye. It is a general rule, in all three sense departments, that quick movement is more readily perceived than slow^. § 4^. Rate of Movement 175 (i) Skin. — A stimulus which travels at a uniform rate over the skin does not give rise to the idea of uniform movement. We take the movement to be quicker at parts of the skin upon which localisation is accurate than at parts where it is inaccurate. In the former case more local signs are aroused in the time occu- pied by the movement ; the movement has a more varying con- tents. A more diversified contents in a fixed time is perceived as a greater rapidity of movement during that time. Method. — Draw a pencil point at a uniform rate from shoulder to finger-tips. Its movement will appear to quicken and slacken as it passes over areas of greater and less localising power. On the other hand, if a thread be drawn by an assistant between your forefinger and thumb, at first quickly and then more slowly, you will not know that the same length of thread has been em- ployed : the thread will seem to be shorter in the first experiment than in the second. If it is pulled quickly, you receive no clear impressions from its irregularities ; you have one blurred impres- sion. If it is pulled slowly, you perceive all the roughnesses and unevennesses of its surface ; the movement has a more diversified contents. Here, diversified contents in a longer time is inter- preted as a greater extent of thread. (2) Eye. — The eye can just perceive a movement, in direct vision, if its rate is that of .0028 mm. in the second. It is difficult to compare the rapidity of two movements, to say which is the quicker and which the slower, if the movements are at all quick. The after-images of the moving stimulus persist so long as to render an estimation almost impossible. (3) Joint. — All that we know of the rapidity of articular move- ment is the general fact stated above. Quick movements are more readily noticed than slow. This can be shown by the help of the apparatus described in § 46. The following plan might be followed to test how accurately we can compare the rate of articular movements. Lay the right hand upon a low table. Bend the three last fingers and the thumb, leaving only the forefinger extended. Insert the tip of this finger in a metal cap, which is carried upon a smoothly running wheel. The wheel must be run by clockwork, or by weights hung below 1/6 Perception and Idea the table ; and its speed must be variable, and known in each experiment. Let an assistant set it so that it carries the finger over the same distance in two successive movements, but at dif- ferent rates. Find the smallest difference of rate which is percep- tible with a constant extent of movement. If the whole body is moved, without jar and at a uniform rate, the movement passes entirely unnoticed. If the movement slows or quickens, however, it is perceived at once. The perception may be due to the inertia of the body : we are carried forward as the movement slows, and jerked backward as it quickens. The suggestion has also been made that the acceleration of movement sets up a wave in the endolymph of the internal ear, and that we consequently owe its perception to the static sense (§ 20). If this is correct, the static sense has two qualities, giddiness and a peculiar pressure, and the latter unites with the sensations pro- duced by the inertia of the body to give us the idea of increased or decreased rate of movement. III. Qualitative Ideas § 49. Clangs. — A clang is an assemblage of tones. It is the conscious process v^hich corresponds to a compound air-wave, as the tone corresponds to a simple wave-move- ment of the air particles. When we hear a chord of three or four notes struck upon the piano, we realise that it is a chord, i.e., a percep- tion, and not a single tone, a sensation. But we realise, also, that the notes of the chord somehow fit together, belong to one another, form a single impression. If we sound three or four neighbouring notes, we obtain a very different effect: the complex 'falls to pieces,' the notes seem mutually repellent. As compared with a single note, the chord is complex ; as compared with a discord, it is a single impression. § 49- Clmtgs 177 But not even the note is a sensation, an unanalysable elementary process ; it is a chord, composed of a number of tones. The strongest tone gives name and character to the note, but other, weaker tones are always present in it. To a trained ear there is as much difference between a note and a tone as to the untrained ear between a note and a chord or a chord and a discord. It is clear from these instances that under certain cir- cumstances tone qualities can mix or blend together, their mixture giving rise to a single total impression, a single perception ; while under other circumstances they remain separate, and are distinctly sensible in the complex impres- sion. In the note we have the highest degree of tonal fusion, as it is called : one of the constituent tones is so strongly predominant as to give its own quality to the whole assemblage. In the chord we have a less complete fusion. It is true that each of the component notes loses something of its qualitative distinctness, and that the chord is a single perception. But the hearer cannot doubt, as he can in the case of the note, that the perception is a complex of simple processes ; with a little trouble he can distinguish these, the tones, in the total mass of sound. Lastly, in the discord we have the lowest degree of fusion, the refusal to blend : the component notes stand out side by side. The note is known technically as the simple clang ; the chord and discord as compotmd clangs. The strongest tone in the note is termed the * fundamental.' The other, weaker tones are ' overtones.' When a violin string is plucked, it vibrates not only as a whole, but in sections as well : half, third, quarter, etc. The fundamental is the tone of the whole 178 Perception and Idea string ; the overtones are the tones corresponding to the vibrations of the half-string, third-string, quarter-string, etc.^ What holds of the viohn string holds of any vibrating body : metal rod, mass of air, etc. We always have a fundamental tone and a series of overtones. As a general rule, the overtones be- come weaker, the farther they are removed from the fundamental : the vibration of the quarter-string gives rise to a weaker tone than the vibrations of the half-string and third-string. But the relative strength of the overtones is different in the case of different vibrat- ing bodies. Thus the air masses of the viola and clarionette vibrate in thirds, fifths, sevenths, etc., more strongly than in halves, quarters, sixths, etc. ; the hammer strikes the piano string in such a way that the sixth overtone does not sound ; the reed-pipes of an organ give a regular series of overtones, which decrease in intensity, in accord- ance with the general rule, from the lowest upwards. The note of each musical instrument thus has a peculiar character or colouring ; 1 As the overtones correspond to the vibrations of the half, third, quarter, etc., of the vibrating body, their vibration rates will be twice, three times, four times, etc., that of the fundamental. If we represent the fundamental vibration rate by I, the overtones will have the vibration rates 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, etc.; if we represent it by 2, the overtones will form the series 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, etc. The relation of the overtone to its fundamental must not be confused with the relation of the two tones composing a musical interval. The sixth over- tone, e.g., does not make with its fundamental the musical interval of the sixth. The notes of the musical scale are named a, b, c, d, c, f, g. The musical inter- vals are calculated by reference to these names. Thus a-c, b-d, d-f, e-g, f-a are all thirds : three notes are involved in the composition of each. So a-e, b-f, c-g, etc., are all fifths: five notes are involved in the composition of each one. The vibration rates of the chief musical intervals form the following ratios : octave, 1:2; fifth, 2:3; fourth, 3:4; major sixth, 3:5; minor sixth, 5:8; major third, 4:5; minor third, 5:6; second, 8:9; major seventh, 8:15; minor seventh, 5 : 9. We can now state the relation of overtone to fundamental in terms of the musical intervals. The series, with i as fundamental, is : 1:23456.... Fundamental and first overtone constitute an octave; fundamental and second overtone, an octave and a fifth; fundamental and third overtone, two octaves; fundamental and fourth overtone, two octaves and a major third; fundamental and fifth overtone, two octaves and a fifth, etc. § 49- Clangs 179 or, technically, the clangs of different instruments have different clang-tints. It is a difference of clang-tint which differentiates the vowel sounds of the human voice. The larynx, the primitive musical instrument, is thus seen to be in reality a number of instruments : an ^-instrument, an ^-instrument, an //-instrument, etc. This fact accounts, in part, for the superiority of the voice over any string or wind instrument in the matter of expression. The viohn approaches nearest to the voice, since the violinist can vary the overtones of his instrument, within wide Hmits, by striking the strings at different points ; and can thus evoke notes or chords of different clang-tint. Method. — The analysis of a note into its constituent tones is most easily performed by the aid of a sonometer and a set of re- sonators, such as are used in the physical laboratories. The sono- meter is an instrument somewhat resembling a single-stringed vio- lin ; and the resonators are bottles of glass or metal, each of which contains a mass of air whose vibration corresponds to a particular tone. The sonometer string is plucked, and its vibrations give rise to a clang. The resonators are applied to the ear in quick succession, during the sounding of the clang. All those whose peculiar tone is among the overtones of the clang send a loud sound into the ear : the others are silent. If you have not these instruments, try the following experiment with a piano. The middle c of the scale contains in it a number of overtones, the loudest of which are the c^ and g' of the next octave, and the 55- Successive Association ; Law of Association 207 of ideas, — the original idea having been followed by the worked- over idea of sweetness. In the same way, the statement of a scientific theory is not a simple re-collection of facts which have been presented together, but separately attended to : it is the re-collection of these facts after they have been associatively supplemented, i.e., referred to their conditions. Psychologically regarded, all instances of judgment fall under this second heading of successive association. Take, e.g., the judgment: "The waste-paper basket is under the table." Here we have an original whole, a visual complex including local ideas of basket and table. The two constituents are disjoined by the attention, and reunited after the idea of position has been made explicit. Or suppose that we walk into a strange village and say : " That must be the hotel ! " We have a visual complex, the idea of a certain house, from which the attention dissociates all the hotel-like elements. These are supplemented, and form the hotel idea, which succeeds the original house-hotel complex. Method. — To test the formation of successive associations of this type, the following plan may be adopted. Show the subject, for a short time, a complex visual impression, — the picture of a street or ceremony or landscape, — an impression, i.e., which is too complicated to be grasped by one pulse of the attention. Let him then write a description of it, trying to reconstruct it as a whole, and putting down his ideas in the order in which they occur to him ; that is, in the order in which the various parts of the picture attracted his attention. As he writes, more and more ideas will occur to him ; so that the process of reconstruction will take the form of a successive association. A train of illusory ideas is termed a hallucination. Hallucinations do not occur in the normal mind. We have instances of them in dreaming and in the visual phantasies of alcoholic delirium. Illu- sory judgments are \.^xv(\^A fallacies , when formed in a normal con- sciousness ; delusiotis, when they appear as a symptom of insanity. § 55. The Law of Association. — The fundamental law of the association of ideas may be stated in almost the same 2o8 The Association of Ideas words as those which we used in accounting for the sin- gleness or unity of the idea. What the organism finds together in the world in which it lives, we said, remains together in perception or idea. But one and the same kind of elementary mental process may be concerned in many different adjustments to physical surroundings, and will therefore have a tendency to connect with processes which form part of many different ideas. This fact is the key to association. )^// the connections set tip betzveen sen- sations by tJie formation of ideas tend to persist, even when the original conditions of connection are no longer fulfilled. Let us apply this law to the four cases of association which we have described. (i) Associative Stipplementiftg. — Here we have a complex of sensations, abc, some or all of which have been connected, in past experience, with other elementary processes, xyz. Hence, when- ever ab or abc appears, xyz tends to appear with it. A rumbling noise, abc, is heard. Our idea of a heavy vehicle includes, as part-processes, the noise, abc, and a complex of visual sensations, xyz. Hence as the noise is heard, the visual complex is aroused also ; the noise is supplemented by the other compo- nents of the idea of a heavy vehicle. Or we have the idea of a clearly outlined hill, abc. Our idea of nearness, xyz, has been connected, in past experience, with the idea of clearness of outline, ab. Hence when we see the hill, abc, we have at once the idea of its nearness : ab\^c'] is supplemented by xyz. (2) Verbal Association. — Verbal association takes place in precisely the same way as associative supplementing. The only reasons for separating the two processes are, first, that the verbal idea is the most important of all the supplementary ideas, — some- times, indeed, as in the instance of a verbal Mocal sign' (§ 44), rendering all further supplement unnecessary, — and secondly, that the verbal association is on the boundary line between the § 55- ^^^^ Law of Association 209 simultaneous and the successive association, {a) The word is important because it is, so to speak, the common denominator of all ideas alike ; words are the medium by which we communi- cate ideas to one another, whatever the ideas may be. Hence the verbal idea is the richest of all ideas in habits of connection ; it has the greatest tendency to associate, as well as the greatest range of association. At the same time, it is the word which, as the single expression of a complex of sensations, gives definite- ness or finahty to that complex, {b) That verbal association lies on the border-line between the simultaneous and the successive forms of association is shown by the two instances of the traction engine and the hotel. Had the noise been a little less definite in its suggestion, we might have thought for a moment, and come to the conclusion that it was due to a traction engine (successive association). Had the village hotel been a little more definite in its suggestion, a little more clearly a hotel, the word ' hotel ' might have arisen in our minds as soon as we saw the building (simultaneous association). We may refer to our first illustration. The noise abc has aroused the visual complex, xyz. The words ' traction engine,' which we may represent by pqr, have been constantly connected with this visual complex. Hence given abc, and we have ahcxyz ; given xyz, and we have xyzpqr. Given the noise, and we have visual picture and name of the vehicle. (3) The Train of Ideas. — This is easily reduced to the same formula. The written word horse is supplemented by the audi- tory idea of horse ; abc becomes abcxyz. But there are some elements, x, common to my ideas of horse and of Prince ; on the one hand I have abcxyz, on the other, say, xdef. When the former is given, therefore, the latter comes up. But again, there are elements, /, common to my idea of Prince and to my idea of stable ; on the one hand I have xdef, on the other, ?>:x.y,fgh. When the former is given, therefore, the latter comes up. And so on. (4) Association after Disjunction. — We have a complex, abed. This is divided up by the attention into ab and cd. The former is supplemented to abxy, the latter to cdjyq. We then have the 2IO The Association of Ideas successive association ab\_cd'\xy-\ab'\cdpq ; the two supple- mented ideas associate, because of the association of abed in the original complex. — Or we have the original complex, abed. Some one part-process, r, attracts the attention, and is supplemented. We then have the successive association abcd-exy. The chord e-e-g is given. It is divided up into its three notes, and each of the notes is supplemented by a word, the name of the note. The three notes are then associated, the ground of their connection lying in the fact of their having been together in the chord. — Or a hot room is given, and the heat attracts the atten- tion. The heat-idea is supplemented, and this supplemented idea associated to the whole complex. We can, then, express the law of association by the formula ab — be. One idea calls up another when it contains elements which are common to it and that other. Connections once formed (be^ tend to persist even when the conditions of their formation are not realised (when only ab is given). All connections set up between sensations by the for- mation of ideas tend to persist. It is the business of psychology to discover under what conditions they actu- ally do persist, — why it is that now this and now that idea is associated to the same impression. The conditions of persistence are partly external and partly internal. On the one hand freqiteney of association in the outside world assures stability of connection in consciousness ; on the other, our mental constittitio7i decides what shall be the line of least associative resistance. In a given instance, these conditions may vary somewhat : the recency of an occurrence, e.g., may give it the same power, of connec- tion that it would have gained by frequent repetition, and the pleasantness or unpleasantness of an event, i.e., its hold over the attention, may give it the same power of connection that it would have possessed in its § 55- ^^^<^ Lazv of Association 211 own right had it appealed to our specific mental constitu- tion. Method. — The special conditions of the association of ideas in a particular consciousness at a particular time can be deter- mined only by a careful analysis of experimental results, carried out along the lines indicated in the foregoing Section. At present so few investigations have been made that it is hardly possible to say anything more than has been said, in general terms, in the text. Another method for testing the quickness of different associations will be described in Ch. XIV. In the older psychologies various laws of association were recognised : association by similarity, association by contiguity, association by cause and effect, etc. These are in reality not laws, in the true sense of the word, but sub-forms of one type of succes- sive association, — the train of ideas. If the association took the form abcd-bcde, it was called an association by similarity ; if it took the form abcd-axyz, an association by contiguity ; if axyz happened to be the effect of abed, an association by cause and effect. Thus suppose that the idea of ' Alexander the Great ' suggests that of * Napoleon.' This would have been called an association by similarity. But its formula evidently is : Alexander, general, conqueror, — Napoleon, general, conqueror. There is no new * law ' involved ; it is our own law ab-bc with the b elements pre- ponderant. Or suppose that the idea ' cow ' suggests that of ' milk- maid.' This would have been called an association by contiguity. But its formula is : cow, cow in field, cow being milked, — milk- maid, cow being milked. Again, there is no new law involved ; it is our law ab-bc, with the a and c elements preponderant. It is, then, a mistake to speak of these forms of association as ' laws.' The mistake arose from the habit of considering ideas as permanent wholes, ' bits ' of mind, which were joined together as wholes. The fluidity of the idea, and all the facts of associa- tive supplementing, were unnoticed. 212 The Association of Ideas Very little is known in detail of the physiological processes which correspond to the mental processes of association. We know that the more frequently any organ has been in action, the more easily is it set in action ; the tendency to act grows with action. We must suppose, further, that the tendency of two parts of the brain to act together grows with every instance of joint action. The supposition is borne out by what we know of the brain's mode of working. We shall return to the point in § 76. CHAPTER IX Feeling and Emotion § 56. The Nature and Forms of Feeling. — Consciousness can never be wholly affective, to the exclusion of all sen- sation processes. This can be shown in two ways. On the one hand, consciousness is always complex, consists always of more than one elementary process. But the affection of any particular moment is a single affection ; however numerous the stimuli which are presented at that moment, their pleasantness or unpleasantness is one in our experience (§ 32). And as there are no 'mixed feelings,' no simultaneous associations of pleasantness and unpleasantness, there must be something besides affection present to constitute a consciousness. On the other hand, it follows at once from the definition of affection that an affective process cannot be the whole of consciousness. An affection is the conscious repre- sentative of the way in which the organism takes certain impressions. But there can be no way of taking unless there are impressions to take, — i.e., unless sensations are set up at the same time as the affection. Although, therefore, consciousness may very well con- sist solely of sensation processes, — ideas or connections of ideas which are of such slight intensity as not to excite pleasantness, or of so habitual occurrence as to have be- come indifferent, — no consciousness is exclusively affec- 213 214 Feeling and Emotion tive. Ideas can stand alone, without affection ; affection cannot stand alone, without the support of sensation or idea. The simplest concrete process in which affection pre- ponderates is th.Q. feeling. The feeling stands on the same level of mental development as the perception or idea ; it is in reality a complex process, composed of a perception or idea and affection, in which affection plays the princi- pal part. As a rule, the greater number of the constituent sensations are either indifferent, or but weakly pleasant or unpleasant, while a minority stand out distinctly as the supporters of an intense affection. Thus the feeling that arises when we cut our finger contains visual and cutane- ous sensations, which are indifferent ; the common sen- sation of pain, which stands out above these ; and a strongly unpleasant affection, which attaches to the pain. We term the feeling, in so many words, a 'feel- ing of pain.* And we say in the same way, that we 'feel warm,' 'feel tired,' ' feel thirsty,' 'feel giddy,' etc., naming the feeling in each case from the strongest sensation or group of sensations in the complex. The strongest sensation, it must be remembered, is not so strong as the affection. The fact can best be shown symboli- cally. It we denote sensation by s and affection by a, and fur- ther employ large and small letters to express different degrees of intensity in these processes, we can indicate the composition of the feeling by the formula ssA. The compound sS would then be an indifferent perception. We often have, in experience, sSa or sSa ; a complex in which the strongest sensation is stronger than the affection. In such cases, we speak not of a feeling, but of an ' affectively toned idea.' Suppose, e.g., that we cut our finger with a razor. We might be struck, at the moment, rather by the extreme sharp- § 5 6. The Nature a7id Fonns of Feeling 215 ness of the blade than by the pain of the wound. We should then have not a feeling of pain, but an unpleasantly toned idea of sharpness. Practically, it is not hard to draw the distinction between feeling and affectively toned idea ; the two are sufficiently well- marked in actual experience. In scientific analysis, however, they differ only in the amount of their affective constituent ; and, as we have no means of measuring this amount at all accurately, psychology can distinguish them only by the general statement that the feehng is more affection than it is idea, the affectively toned idea more idea than it is affection. We have noticed the fact that impressions which are frequently repeated become indifferent. The organism adapts itself to them, and their pleasantness or unpleasant- ness 'wears off.' It is an evident corollary to this that the ideas which are of greatest service to us as the sources of knowledge of the physical world, and which are therefore most often ' handled ' by us in acquiring or imparting knowledge, are least likely to play any large part in the formation of feelings. They become stereotyped, so to speak ; they are attended to not for their own sake, but for the sake of what they mean. They are, as a matter of fact, always in process ; their composition varies, and the relative intensity, duration, etc., of their components also change. But we take them for granted, supplementing them as the proof-reader supplements misspelled words (§ 53). And at the same time that we overlook slight changes in their contents, we lose the pleasantness or unpleasantness which once attached to them. There can be no question of the correctness of this corollary as regards sight and hearing. These two senses are in constant exercise ; sight for reading, and hearing for conversation, listening to lectures, etc. We are perfectly indifferent to the great major- 2i6 Feeling and Emotion ity of the visual impressions which we receive in the course of a day. It is only when they are too strong, as when snow dazzles the eye, that they are markedly unpleasant ; and only by contrast, as ' restful ' or ' quiet,' that they are markedly pleasant. It is true that we speak of ' feeling blue,' ' feeling dull,' etc., and say that 'things have a black look.' But these are metaphorical expres- sions, referring to the promise of bad weather in a lowering sky, etc. — Just the same thing holds of clangs and noises. But there seem to be important exceptions to the rule in cer- tain organic sensations (not in all: to them. Nevertheless, we touch a great many objects in the course of a day with complete indifference. The feeling is a mixture of perception and affection, in which the affection preponderates. Hence feelings can- not be satisfactorily classified except in terms of affection, the strongest part-process. Now there are only two quali- ties of affection : pleasantness and unpleasantness ; and there are, accordingly, only two kinds or classes of feel- ings : pleasant feelings and unpleasant feelings. But as very many different perceptions may enter into one class of feelings, there will be many shades or varieties of feel- ing within each class. Thus the feeling of warmth and the feeling of satiety are both pleasant feelings, feelings of the same kind ; but the difference of the sensation pro- cesses contained in them makes a difference in the whole feeling. Language, as we have seen, avails itself of such differences ; feelings are named after the strongest con- stituent sensation. It is often asserted that there are a great number of different feeling qualities ; that affective experience is as rich in qualities as sensible experience. It is rather true, as stated in the text, that there are only two quahties of feeling, — the qualities of pleasantness and unpleasantness ; but the complexity of sensible experience shows through the affective overlay in the various concrete feelings. The differences between feeling and feeling within each class are entirely due to differences in the quality of component sensations ; but as the predominant quality of the whole is an affective quality, these differences are — naturally, but quite wrongly — attributed to affection. The difference between the ' feeling of giddiness ' and the ' feeling of suffocation ' lies in their sensible factors, not in their affective constituents. They differ as giddiness and suffocation differ : as unpleasantness, they are the same. § 57- '^^^^ Nature of Emotio7t 219 We may speak of illuso7-y feelings, in the sense that there is an affective contrast observable when feelings of different kinds follow one another in consciousness. Affective contrast appears under the same conditions as sensation contrast. If a moderately pleasant is followed by a moderately unpleasant feeling, the un- pleasantness of the latter is intensified, and vice versa. Very weak feelings do not contrast : there is not enough affection present. And very strong feelings shake the nervous system too violently for contrast effects to be manifested. The criminal, reprieved from death, cannot realise his good fortune at first; he is merely dazed. § 57. The Nature of Emotion. — The emotion stands upon the same level of mental development as the simul- taneous association of ideas. On the side of sensation, consciousness advances beyond the stage of a patchwork of perceptions or ideas; the- factors in different ideas run together and form larger wholes, each of which corre- sponds, not to an object or process, but to what we may call a siUiation or incident in the physical world. On the side of affection, consciousness advances beyond the simple feeling to the emotion. The organism does more than ' feel cold ' and ' feel unwell ' : it feels the pleasant- ness or unpleasantness of a certain total situation or pre- dicament, of the whole complex of ideas which represents a certain concurrence of processes or collocation of objects in the outside world. On the one hand, we have a rum- bling noise, interrupted by a shrill scream : these ideas are supplemented by the ideas of a child and a wagon : and the whole complex of ideas suggests at once that an accident has happened. On the other, this accident is felt, in its totality ; we have the emotion of pity or of fear. The conditions under which an emotion arises will, then, be somewhat as follows. We set out with a consciousness, 220 Feeling and Emotion composed of a number of ideas, more or less distinct, and more or less pleasant or unpleasant. This consciousness is suddenly interrupted by an idea to which the attention is forcibly attracted (passive attention). The idea is immediately supplemented by other ideas, and a simulta- neous association is formed, reflecting a scene or situation in the physical world. The situation is of such a kind that the organism, in obedience to biological law, must feel it to be pleasant or unpleasant. At this stage we have, there- fore, a complicated feeling set in the midst of the original consciousness. The feeling is so powerful, however, that the original processes are now upon the verge of disap- pearance. An organism which is called upon to face a particular situation must do so by a particular bodily adjustment, a special bodily attitude or set of bodily movements. This adjustment is taking place at the same time that the com- plicated feeling, just described, is ousting the processes of which the original consciousness was composed. As it takes place, various organic sensations are set up, — the direct results of the changes in the position, tension, etc., of the various bodily organs involved. These organic sensations associate to the mass of ideas contained in the feeling, and together with that feeling constitute the emotion. It is essential, then, for the formation of an emotion : (i) that a train of ideas shall be interrupted by a vivid feeling ; (2) that this feeling shall mirror a situation or incident in the outside world; and (3) that the feeling shall be enriched by organic sensations, set up in the course of bodily adjustment to the incident. The emotion itself, as experienced, consists of a strong affection, and § 5^. The Forms of Emotion 221 a simultaneous association of ideas, some of the part- processes in which are always organic sensations. In adult life, an emotion is hardly ever found ^ pure ' ; con- sciousness is too complex, and the habits of connection formed by the part-processes in ideas too numerous. Thus the 'angry consciousness ' described in § 4 contains a good deal more than the pure emotion of anger. — The formation of an emotion occu- pies so short a time that it is impossible to experience separately the two stages depicted in the text. Feeling and bodily adjust- ment come together; their association is simultaneous. Logi- cally, and in primitive experience, the feehng comes first, and the adjustment afterwards. The feeling, which makes up the body of the emotion, differs somewhat in composition, according as it is pleasurable or un- pleasurable. The having of a pleasant experience means that the physical conditions are favourable to the arousal of a large number of ideas ; the having of an unpleasant experience, that they are unfavourable (§ 38). Hence, the feeling contained in a pleasurable emotion is extremely rich in ideas, while that con- tained in an unpleasurable emotion is comparatively poor. In joy, ideas crowd in upon us ; our thoughts fly hither and thither. In sorrow, we brood upon one narrow set of ideas. The importance of organic sensations as factors in emotion is shown in many current words and phrases which describe the emotive state. We are ' oppressed ' by care ; we ' cannot bear ' certain people ; we are ' cast down ' by bad fortune ; ' mortified ' (bruised or pounded) or ' exasperated ' (roughened) by a friend's conduct, etc. ' Anger ' means a choking or strangling, — a group of organic sensations which we now attribute rather to baffled or impotent anger than to anger itself. ' Fear ' is the state of mind (and body) of the way/^/rr/ etc. — Cf. also § 59. § 58. The Forms of Emotion. — Just as there are two kinds or classes of feeling, so there are two of emotion : the pleasurable and the unpleasurable. Within each kind or class there are a large number of special emotive forms, 222 Feeling and Emotion as there are a large number of special 'feelings.' Can we name these forms, and so classify emotions, as we classi- fied sensations and ideas ? Or must we be content with the general distinction of the two classes, as we were com- pelled to be in the case of feeling ? An emotion arises when a situation or predicament arises. If, then, we could ascertain the typical situations which an organism, placed in the world of nature, must face, — the simplest and most inevitable situations of the physical world, — we could determine the fundamental emotions. And we could then attempt to derive the other emotions from the standard emotions, and thus obtain a complete table of emotive forms. Although there is no reason to suppose that this prob- lem is insoluble, it has not yet been solved. Animal psychology and child psychology, the biological method and the method of introspection, have hitherto failed to give us an answer to it. All that can be done at present is to indicate one or two of l:he ways in which classification has been tried, with more or less of success, but with no final result. (i) Emotions fall into two great groups, as emotions of the present and emotions of the future. Thus hope is an emotion of the future, which may become an emotion of the present in the form of satisfaction (hope fulfilled) or disappointment (hope unfulfilled) or despair (hope de- ferred). Fear is an emotion of the future, which may become an emotion of the present either as alarm (fear fulfilled) or relief (fear unfulfilled) or suspense (fear deferred). (2) Emotions fall into two great groups, as subjective and objective emotions. The subjective emotions are r § 58- The Forms of Emotion 223 those in which the central feehng is made up principally of ideas about oneself; the objective emotions those in which the central feeling is made up principally of ideas derived from outside objects or processes. The most gen- eral forms of subjective emotion are joy and sorrow ; the most general forms of objective emotion, like and dislike. The objective emotions may be again subdivided, accord- ing as the object is a person or a thing. The most gen- eral forms of objective person-emotions are sympathy and antipathy ; the most general forms of objective thing- emotions are attraction and repulsion. Further, many of the subjective and objective emotions occur in a more sub- jective and a more objective form. Thus sorrow, a subjec- tive emotion, has a more objective form, care, and a more subjective form, melancholy. Antipathy, an objective emotion, has a more objective form, hatred, and a more subjective form, exasperation. There can be no such thing as an '■ emotion of indifference,' since there is no third affective qiiaUty, ' indifference.' But just as a feeling or an affectively toned idea may pass, in course of time, into an indifferent idea, — the affection * wearing off' with custom, — so a situation, which would naturally give rise to an emotion, may leave us indifferent. This state of indifference is due to the frequent repetition of a situation, to the conquering of natural by acquired tendencies. Every ' dangerous ' profession puts its fol- lowers in situations which would call up the emotion of fear in persons unaccustomed to them : no one could do off-hand what is constantly done by miners, sailors, steeple-jacks, etc. And a life of perpetual trouble blunts the susceptibilities. We have an instance of this in Tennyson's poem of * The Grandmother ' : — " You think I am hard and cold; But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest." — 224 Feeling and Emotion The indifference which Hes midway between joy and sorrow is called composure ; that which lies between like and dislike, un- concern. Sympathy and antipathy become apathy ; attraction and repulsion, insensibility. § 59. The Expression of the Emotions. — By the ' expres- sion ' of an emotion we mean the bodily effects following from the change in the nervous system which is the physi- cal condition of the emotion. The various forms of emo- tive expression may be classified under four heads. (i) Since the core of every emotion is a vivid feeling, we shall expect to find in emotion all the bodily manifesta- tions of the simple affection. We find, as a matter of fact, that every emotion brings with it changes in pulse, respi- ration, volume and muscular strength. Method. — Suppose that the subject is in position, as described in § 33 (2). After a short time has elapsed, he is informed, say, that he may smoke. The pleasure of the unexpected news shows itself at once in the records of pulse, breathing and volume ; and if the dynamometer be squeezed while the cigar is being cut and lighted, it also gives evidence of the affective process. After another brief interval, the cigar is flicked out of the subject's mouth by the assistant, apparently as a practical joke. The resultant un- pleasantness is clearly marked upon the instruments. — The mani- festations of the emotions of pleased surprise and resentment are here identical with those of simple pleasantness and unpleasantness. (2) But the emotion is the conscious way of taking not an impression, but a situation, a number of simultaneous impressions ; and the situation is a far more serious matter to the organism than the separate impression. The bodily changes set up directly by the change in the nervous sys- tem are therefore more intensive and more far-reaching than those just mentioned : they extend beyond heart. § 59- ^^^^ Expression of the Emotions 225 lungs and voluntary muscle to the secretory organs and the other involuntary muscles. Thus in fear the skin is pale, the breathing shallow and hurried, the pulse weak and irregular, and the muscular strength diminished. At the same time, the salivary glands cease to act, so that the mouth and throat become dry ; the body is bathed in a cold sweat ; the bladder and intestine are affected (tendency to urination and diarrhoea) : while there is a ' sinking of the stomach ' with consequent nausea, a tremor of the whole body (shivering and goose-flesh), and an erection of hair due to the contraction of the unstriped muscles lying be- neath the skin. In the emotion of impotent rage there is a sensation of choking, and, oftentimes, a derangement of the liver. In grief we have an excessive action of the lachrymal glands. These bodily symptoms are less well marked in the case of pleasurable emotions ; though we find tears shed in moments of great joy, and a tendency to urination when the body is shaken by violent laughter. We cannot say anything very certainly of the physiological mechanism of these various manifestations of emotion. It is natu- ral that, when the organism is affected as a whole, the whole sys- tem of organs in which the vital functions are seated should show signs of the shock. But this ' naturalness ' does not account for the particular symptoms of particular emotions. (3) The organism has to * face ' the situation, by way of a bodily attitude. The reasons for the special forms of this attitude must be sought from biology. What concerns us here is the fact that we have in certain emotive expres- sions an illustration of the psychological law of associa- tion. For certain biological reasons, the frightened animal crouches down, the angry animal attacks the object of its anger, the startled animal leaps away from the unexpected Q 226 Feeling and Emotion impression. In civilised life, some of these actions have become unnecessary, and others are partially inhibited by acquired tendencies. Nevertheless, the association of a definite group of organic sensations to the feeling which reflects a definite situation tends to persist. Although we do not crouch down, as if actually to hide ourselves from a stronger opponent, we do * shrink into ourselves ' when we are expecting censure or bad news ; although we do not attack when we are angry, we do clench the fist and brace ourselves as if in preparation to attack ; and although we do not leap away, we do 'jump ' or start when we are sur- prised. In the wince and brace and start we have sur- vivals of the primitive bodily adjustment by which the organism faced three typical ' situations ' ; and our emotion is not complete until the organic sensations aroused by them have been added to the mass of ideas contained in the central feeling. (4) When we speak, in ordinary conversation, of 'expression,* we mean the expression of the face. The muscles of the face are arranged round three very im- portant sense-organs, the organs of vision, smell and taste, and their adjustment forms a part of the total bodily adjustment to all the many situations which appeal to those senses. But that is not all. It is a remarkable fact that the facial muscles contribute something to the expres- sion of emotions in which they are not directly concerned. Thus the injured man 'looks bitter'; i.e., looks as he would look were an unpleasantly bitter morsel placed upon his tongue. The disappointed man 'looks sour'; i.e., looks as he would if he had taken a sharply acid substance into his mouth. In surprise, the eyebrows are raised, as if to afford a free view of the surprising object ; and so on. § 59- "^^^^ Expi'cssion of iJie Emotions 227 In attempting to explain this transference of expression, — the association of what were originally reflex move- ments, made in response to definite sense stimuli, bitter, sour, etc., to an emotion which does not include the sensa- tions set up by those stimuli, — we must remember two things : that gesture was far more essential for the com- munication of ideas among primitive men than it is now, and that the primitive vocabulary was limited. To convince ourselves of the latter fact we have only to look at the derivation of abstract words : we find constantly that they contain a metaphor, i.e., that they originally designated something concrete. Thus black is 'that which is scorched ' ; an animal is ' that which breathes ' ; to explain is to * spread out' or Mevel.'' This means that complex states of mind, such as emotion, would be spoken of, at first, in a meta- phorical or partial way, and that the spoken word would be eked out by gesture. The metaphors employed would be taken from the familiar incidents of everyday life. The primitive hunter ' tasted ' success, in a very real way. The unsuccessful ' tasted ' life also, and found it bitter or sour. The mouth of a maiden is * sweet'; 'honey and milk are under her tongue.' The unpopular man 'stinks in the nostrils' of his tribesmen. We cannot 'see' the point of a remark, or the reason for an action. Whenever one of these metaphors came to mind, and still more certainly, whenever one of them came to the lips, the reflex expressive movements of the facial muscles would be set up. Certain part-processes in the central feeling suggest the metaphor ; the metaphor brings the bitter or sweet or surprised ' look ' with it ; and the ' look ' persists as a constituent in the total emotive expression, because of its original utility for the communication of J ^ 228 Feeling and Emotion ideas, and the consequent stability of its connection with the feehng. / Laughter. — Laughter consists of a certain play of feature, and of a series of long inspirations, each of which is followed by a number of abrupt expirations. It occurs under the most various conditions. We speak of it as sardonic, contemptuous, derisive, sympathetic, hysterical, joyous, etc. ; it expresses the sentiment of power; and it follows tickling and certain acute pains. No explanation which has as yet been offered is entirely satisfac- tory. (i) Some authorities regard the laughter which follows tickling as typical laughter. Tickling consists of intermittent light press- ures. Each pressure, it is said, sets up a reflex constriction of the small arterial blood-vessels of the body. When the arteries are constricted, the amount of blood pumped through them by the action of the heart is, of course, diminished. There is a close connection between the nerves governing the blood-vessels and the nervous centre which regulates breathing. Hence the inter- mittent arterial constriction is paralleled by an intermittent ex- piration. This latter serves a useful purpose, since it prevents the outflow of blood from the brain. The brain arteries are con- stricted, along with the rest ; less blood gets to the brain ; the movements of laughter prevent this blood from escaping too quickly. (2) Other psychologists look upon laughter as intrinsically an expression of joy. When we are pleased, all the bodily activities are heightened, and a safety-valve is required. We ' let off steam ' by laughing. The muscles of face and respiration are employed to let off the surplus energy of the body because they are con- stantly in use ; the energy runs off most easily by way of them. On either of these explanations, laughter would fall under our second principle. It would be the direct result of a change in the nervous system. The suggestion has been made, however, that the play of feature in laughter, the opening of the mouth and nostrils, may be the (3) expression of a desire to 'take in ' the whole of the pleasant experience. We ' take in ' a comic situation, just § 59- ^^^^ Expression of the Emotions 229 as we take in a pleasant morsel of food or a pleasant odour. On this side, then, laughter would fall under our fourth principle. Summarising this Section, we may say that the expres- sions of emotion include (i) the manifestations of simple affection ; (2) an extension of these manifestations to the secretory organs and the whole system of involuntary muscles ; (3) relics of actions, once performed in obedience to biological necessities ; and (4) reflex movements which were primarily executed in response to certain sensory stimuli, and have now become associated to emotions along with the sensations set up by those stimuli. The second of these expressions shows the serious nature of the situ- ation to be faced; the last two make up the bodily adjust- ment spoken of in § 57. Those who believe that feelings are simple mental processes, and that they present a large number of qualitative differences (§ 56), would explain the fourth factor in emotive expression a little differently. The emotion of care, they would say, is like the ' — Reeling- of oppression ' ; the emotion of disappointment is like the '■ sour feeling ' due to an acid taste. And there is a law of the asso- ciation of feelings : Like feelings tend to associate. We have found good reason to believe, however, that the feeling is a compound process, and that there are but two affective qual- ities, neither of which can stand alone in consciousness. We have further found that the compound processes which we call ^ ideas ' do not associate as wholes : association ' by similarity ' is a form, not a law, of association. We shall not expect to have any such law of association, then, in the sphere of feeling. As a matter of fact, we do not find affection serving as the associative link between two complex processes. There is no reason why a particular pleasant experience should call up another particular pleasant experience : the pleasantness is too general, too evanescent, and too much dependent upon its sensory con- comitants. The pleasant warmth of my room does not call up 230 Feeling and Emotion the pleasant breakfast that I ate an hour ago. If it calls up any- thing, it does so because it is pleasant warmth; thus it may call up the pleasant lunch that I ate at a German inn after a cold tramp, because one of the factors in the lunch-memory is the warmth of the inn-parlour. The associative link must be looked for always on the sensation side of the feeling ; and the association must fall under the formula ab-bc. Although the description and observation of emotive expres- sions do not require the use of introspection, i.e., do not constitute a psychological problem, the facts themselves are too useful to the psychologist to be neglected. It is not only that ( i ) the composition of the emotion, as stated in the text, furnishes illustrations of the association of ideas. The observation of the various forms of expression is of psychological value (2) in that it helps us to analyse and reconstruct a particular emotion ; we know what sort of organic sensations to look for and take account of. In certain cases, these sensations determine the affective quality of the whole emotion ; their intensity may, e.g., render an extreme joy unpleas- ant. And it is of further value (3) in that it enables us to un- derstand how the idea of pleasantness or unpleasantness, which is implied in every case of affective introspection (§ t^t^, takes shape. The idea of affection may be a mass of organic sensations, which have ' expressed ' a certain emotion ; or the visual picture of oneself under the influence of emotion ; or a word which con- tains a metaphor borrowed from sense (my idea of the unpleas- antness of a colour may be that it was a ^ hard ' or ' cold ' colour, etc.) ; or, finally, the word ' pleasantness ' or ' unpleasantness ' itself, — the word having been in the first place attached to some one of the foregoing ideas, as an associative supplement, but now detached from its associations (he impulsive action is still imperfectly developed, the ' idea of movement will, it is true, be liable to attach to almost any presented idea : the child stretches out its arms for the moon. Nevertheless, there is now a second possible condition of inaction : the association of the ideas of object and of movement will be broken up in all cases where the object is found to be unattainable. It soon becomes a matter of experience that reaching after the moon is fruitless, and has no pleasant consequences. Hence the moon-idea ceases to be supplemented by the idea of movement. Impulsive action passes into inaction, because the movement-idea has ' dropped off ' certain ideas to which it was once associated. Inaction may result (3) from a conflict of equally strong impulses. If the impulses to go for a walk and to go home and work (§ 6^) were of precisely the same strength, I should be obliged to stand still; I should be inactive, until one of them was reinforced, and so gained the upper hand in consciousness. An instance of this sort of inaction, so often quoted that it has become proverbial, is to be found in the Sophisms of M. Buridan, a rector of the University of Paris in the 14th century. We are § 69. Inactio7i 259 asked to imagine the case of an ass, which is hungry and thirsty in equal degree, and is placed just midway between a basket of oats and a pail of water. The impulses in both directions being exactly equal, the animal would starve. Inaction may result also (4) from the fact that the ideas which rival the impulse are the stronger of the two com- plexes. When I hear my alarum-clock, I have the impulse to get out of bed. But the idea that I have nothing especial to do, combined with the feeling of present com- fort, may overcome the impulse : I stay where I am. — In the first of these instances we have inaction in place of selective action, in the second we have it in place of volitional action. The last illustration shows that there are certain ideas, in the developed consciousness, to which the idea of move- ment has never been associated at all. We must suppose that at the period when impulsive action was emerging from action upon presentation, a movement-idea was associated, as a matter of course, to every idea that caught the attention. But the association ceased to be universal as soon as the idea of movement ' dropped out of ' cer- tain impulses, leaving them not impulses, but ordinary associations. Henceforth the idea of movement formed connections as other ideas did : it had no advantage over them. And just as we do not associate the idea of * black ' to that of 'grass,' so we do not associate the idea of our own movement to the ideas of * organism,' 'concept,' * ocean ' and a thousand others. Here, then, is another condition of inaction: (5) we do not act, because there is nothing in the nature of the object attended to which should call up the movement-idea. Finally, we have cases of pathological inaction (6) in 26o Voluntary Movement. Analysis of Action the paralysis of the organism during a violent emotion, e.g.^ that of extreme terror. There is here no crouching down or running away ; all movement is inhibited. Since in the primitive consciousness every case of attention means the performance of an action, the organism has a strong inherited tendency to movement. Hence it comes that we never attend, never have a clear idea of anything, — i.e., never feel, — without also moving (§ i^^. The nervous system is built upon a motor plan ; it is never disturbed by an excitation without sending an excitation out again, to some part of the body. If the con- ditions of voluntary movement are not fulfilled, this outgoing excitation gives rise to involuntary movements ; pulse is changed, the viscera move, etc. In the normal man, therefore, inaction, the absence of voluntary movement, does not mean a state of total quietude : whenever he attends (feels), certain of his organs are the seat of involuntary movements. PART III CHAPTER XI Recognition, Memory and Imagination § 70. The Nature of Recognition. — Certain objects and processes of the outside world are familiar to us. When their ideas appear in consciousness, they have attaching to them a mark or sign of familiarity, just as pressures at different parts of the body or objects lying at a distance from us in the field of visual space have attaching to them a mark or sign of locality (§ 44). The local sign makes a given cutaneous impression a ' back of the head ' impres- sion ; the familiarity mark makes that or another im- pression a * known ' or ' recognised ' or * remembered ' impression. The problem of recognition, then, is very similar to that of localisation. We have, in each case, a particular idea or group of ideas which differs from others in the fact that it is marked or qualified in a particular way. The mark is a conscious process or group of conscious processes ; and our business, in each case, is to analyse and reconstruct it, by the help of introspection, and to ascertain its physiological conditions. Suppose that you are entering a street-car. As you enter, you run your eyes over the line of faces before you. The first half-dozen of your fellow-passengers are strangers ; their faces arouse no interest, do not arrest your gaze. At the end of the car, however, you see some- 261 262 Recogiiitiony Memory arid Imagination one whom you know ; you recognise him. A sudden change occurs in your consciousness; you call him by name, take a seat at his side, and begin to converse with him. — What was it that happened in consciousness, at the moment of recognition ? What are the conscious processes involved in * recognising ' t For one thing, your visual idea of your friend was supplemented by a number of other, centrally aroused ideas. As you looked down the line of strange faces, your present train of ideas was not interrupted : the visual ideas were indifferent to you. But as soon as you receive this visual idea, a host of other ideas, derived from your past intercourse, flock into consciousness : will the weather spoil the excursion that you were planning } has he solved the problem that was bothering you both last night.? did the morning paper say anything about that election.? and so on. —The first characteristic of the recognitive consciousness, in this instance, is the supple- menting of the given impression by a large number of ideas. Recognition has meant the formation of a highly complex simultaneous association. At the same time that the association is being formed, your mood\i?i^ changed. As you entered the car you were, we will suppose, thinking indifferently upon your imme- diate business. When you see your friend, the mood of indifference changes to a mood of pleasantness, which we cannot describe better, perhaps, than by the phrase ' feel- ing at home.' The mood contains, besides the pleasant affection, a complex of organic sensations, set up by an 'easy' bodily attitude. — The second characteristic of the recognitive consciousness, then, is a pleasurable mood. Putting the various components together, we have (i) §§ 70j 71- Nature and Forms of Recognitio7i 263 the presented idea; (2) its centrally aroused supplements; and (3) the mood of 'feeling at home.' The union of these three factors gives us a * recognition.' Since the supplementary ideas come to mind in obedience to the law of association, i.e., because certain part-processes are common to them and to the visual idea of your friend, they serve to define the place of that visual idea in your total mental experi- ence. In this sense every such group of supplementary ideas may be termed, metaphorically, a ' local mark ' ; for it locahses the given idea in time and in place. A ' local mark ' of this kind, plus the 'at home ' mood, constitutes the mark of famiharity. — The mood of recognition is a weakened survival of the emotion of relief (fear unfulfilled). To an animal so defenceless as was primi- tive man, the strange must always have been cause for anxiety {cf. the derivation of the word 'fear ' : § 57). The bodily attitude which expresses recognition is still that of relief from tension, that of ease and confidence. Every recognitive experience is intrinsically pleasant. Its pleasantness may, however, be outweighed by the unpleasantness of the recognised idea. If the face which I recognise in the street-car belongs to an individual whom I am particularly anxious to avoid, the total experience is unpleasant : an unpleasurable emotion is set up, and the pleasantness of the organic sensations contained in the recognitive mood is forced into the background of consciousness. We have something very similar to this in the instances of impulsive and instinctive movements away from an object. The sensations evoked by the movements would, of themselves, be accompanied by pleasantness ; but the idea of the object may be so fearful or loathsome that the pleasantness is not felt. § 71. The Forms of Recognition. — While the local signa- ture of visual and cutaneous impressions differs consider- ably in different consciousnesses, it is always something quite definite, a complex of well-defined sensations. The 264 RecognitioUy Memory and Imagination knowledge that a pressure had been made * somewhere * on the surface of the body, or that an .object was lying * somewhere ' in visual space, would be of little service to us. The local sign, if it is to be of any value, must indi- cate some particular part of the skin or some particular point in visual space. On the other hand, the familiarity mark — supplementary ideas and mood of * at home ' — may be of any degree of definiteness or indefiniteness. Recognition will thus have two typical forms, definite and indefinite recognition, — forms which, nevertheless, pass over into each other by a large number of intermedi- ate forms. It is hidefinite when the sole supplement of the given idea is the word 'known' or 'familiar.' We pass some one on the street, and say to our companion : * I'm sure I know that face ! ' Here the familiarity mark consists of the word * known ' and the recognitive mood. Less indefinite are those cases of recognition in which the presented idea calls up a general classificatory term. As we glance down the line of strangers in the street-car, we may think to ourselves : ' Lawyer, — farmer, — com- mercial traveller.' We have recognised them, indefinitely : the familiarity mark consists of the word ' lawyer,' etc., and the recognitive mood. Lastly, recognition may be defi- nite ; the supplementary ideas may be so numerous and unequivocal that the given idea calls up quite definite situ- ations and incidents in our past experience. Thus we may be accosted with the words : ' Don't you remember me } ' We recognise the speaker, indefinitely, as a University man ; but that is all. * Don't you remember Smith .? ' Recognition becomes more definite ; but we have known several Smiths, and do not yet definitely recognise this one. *■ Don't you remember the Smith who was with you § yi. The For 7) IS of Rccognitioii 265 on the Brocken in 'Zj ? ' Now we have a crowd of sup- plementary ideas, representing incidents experienced in common with this particular individual ; the mood reaches its full intensity ; recognition is definite. When we classify recognitions as definite and indefinite, we are thinking of them as already completed. Recogni- tion is definite when the supplementary ideas are definite, indefinite when they are indefinite. We can now classify recognitions, from another point of view, as direct and indirect. In this instance, we are thinking of the way in which recognition is brought about, not of its character as an item of actual experience. Recognition is direct or immediate, when the presented idea is at once supplemented by other ideas, and the recog- nitive mood at once aroused. It is indirect or mediate when the familiarity mark is not called up by the presented idea, but only by some idea successively associated to it. Thus the recognition of your friend in the street-car is an illustration of direct recognition. You no sooner see him than the supplementary ideas are flocking into con- sciousness, and the recognitive mood is in course of forma- tion. The recognition of Smith, on the other hand, is an indirect recognition. The first vague supplements of the visual idea do not enable you to recognise it as the idea of an old acquaintance ; you would have passed by, without knowing that you had met a former friend. The verbal (auditory) idea ' Smith ' is now associated to the visual idea, and the visual-auditory complex has new supple- ments. Still recognition is not definite. The verbal ideas of ' Brocken ' and * 1887 ' are now further associated to the visual-auditory complex ; the new complex has many sup- 2^6 Recognition, Memory and Imagination plements, and starts a definite train of ideas, — recognition is complete. If we reduce the process of indirect recognition to its lowest terms, we get the following formula. We have an idea, abc : say, the visual idea of a person. At first this idea stands alone in con- sciousness ; it does not call up other ideas. Then it is supplemented by other ideas, xyz : say, the auditory complex ' I was with you on the Brocken in '87.' Among the supplements of xyz are the ideas of the walking-tour to which they refer, /^r, and of our friend, as he was then, bed. Here, then, is a successive association of ideas : abcxyz gives place to xyzpqj'bcd. The recognitive mood attaches primarily to the common elements, be ; it is extended to the re- maining element a (a beard, or grizzled hair, or a different mode of dress) simply because this element is given in connection widi be. We should not have recognised abexyz except by way of the idea xyzpq7'bed ; the recognition is indirect. § 72. Recognition and Cognition. — In course of time, as we know, the affective processes in emotion may become so far weakened that the emotion passes over into a mood. With still further repetition, the affective processes in the mood disappear altogether, and we are left with a ' mood of indifference.' The recognitive mood of 'feeling at home ' is no exception to the rule ; its pleasantness wears off, and its organic sensations, becoming indifferent, are disregarded. Thus we do not ' recognise ' the clothes which we put on every morning, or the pen with which we are accus- tomed to write : we take them for granted. When famil- iarity has gone thus far, — when the familiar has ceased to call up supplementary ideas and to be pleasant, — we say that recognition has become cognition. We cognise our pen as our pen, and our clothes as our clothes, without any intermediation of centrally aroused ideas or of the § 72. Recognition and Cognition 2,6'/ recognitive mood. Cognition, that is, is a recognition which has become automatic and mechanical ; it stands to recognition very much as reflex stands to impulsive action. At the same time, it does not seem true to say that cognition has no psychological conditions of any kind, that there is no conscious cognition-mark belonging to the ideas of pen and clothes. The organic sensations which formed part of the original recognitive mood are disre- garded ; but they have not altogether disappeared from consciousness. They are present, weakly and vaguely, whenever we cognise ; so that if we describe the pleas- urable mood of recognition by the phrase * at home,' we may say that cognition has a special mood of indifference, best described, perhaps, by the phrase 'of course.' Introspection of the cognitive consciousness does not reveal any trace of centrally aroused, supplementary ideas. It is true that the sight of pen and clothes evokes certain movements. But these do not involve the idea of movement ; they are secondary reflexes (§ 68). And my cognition of the picture which always hangs upon a particular wall in my study does not even evoke a movement. Cognition, therefore, seems to be brought about solely by the aid of the ' of course ' mood. What we called the ' local mark ' has wholly vanished. On the other hand, we have good evidence of the presence of the mood. Introspection bears out the statement that when we cognise we have, besides the idea cognised, a vague complex of organic sensations which proceed from the bodily attitude assumed in face of the ' of course ' impression. These sensa- tions are best observed on occasions when our cognition of an object is for some reason prevented. We look at our inkstand, and find that the pen, which we ahvays keep in it, has disap- peared ; or we glance round the breakfast-room, and discover that a picture which has always hung upon a certain wall is 268 Recognition^ Memory a7td Imagination absent. We have not been in the habit of recognising pen and picture ; they are too much matters of course to call up the recognitive mood and supplementary ideas. But now that they are gone, our indifferent ^ of course ' mood is jarred ; and we are at once on the alert to discover the reasons for their absence. At the moment of jar, at the instant when the attention is caught by the unexpected event, the sensations which make up the ' of course ' mood are plainly apparent ; but their clearness is hardly more than momentary. It may seem paradoxical to assert that cognition comes later, in the course of mental development, than re-cognition ; as para- doxical as it would be to say that the re- presentation of an object can occur before its presentation. The paradox, however, is merely a matter of terminology, and ceases to be a paradox when we know just what we mean by the words '■ recognition ' and 'cognition.' We have had something similar in the fact that instinctive movements are made by the animal before the instinct, the conscious condition of instinctive action, has taken shape (§ 67). § 73. The Investigation of Recognition. — Four principal problems are suggested by the foregoing Sections: (i) Is direct or indirect recognition the commoner experience "i (2) Can the line of distinction between definite and in- definite recognition be drawn with any degree of sharp- ness .-* (3) After how long an interval is recognition possible.-* (4) What is the importance of verbal associa- tion in recognition } We cannot return any very complete answer to these questions. Experimental work upon them has been begun, but is confined so far to cases of recognition under very simple conditions in particular sense departments. Method. — (i) Prepare a large number of solutions of odor- iferous substances. Take care that the bottles which contain them I § 73- ^^^^ hivcstigation of Recognition 269 are all of the same appearance, that the different colours of the liquids are not visible, etc. Let the subject smell them, one after another, and write a description of the conscious processes which each scent sets up. You will be able to check his description by your observation of his facial expression during the experiment ; the mood of recognition and the mood of uncertainty give rise to different expressive movements of the facial muscles. In an investigation made with a series of 62 scents it was found that the cases of direct recognition amounted to 79.5% of the total number. In 44.9 % , supplementary ideas of all kinds at once flocked into consciousness; in 27.6%, a definite name was at once associated to the impression ; in 7 % , the word '■ famihar ' was the sole associate. The remaining recognitions were indirect. (2) The written records made by the subject in the experi- ments just described will, evidently, enable us to classify his recognitions as definite or indefinite. Experiments upon this question can also be carried out as follows : A series of tones or colours is presented, term by term, to the observer. After a cer- tain interval, a single tone or colour is given, and the subject required to say whether it was or was not contained in the original series, and in the former event what place it occupied there. If he says : ' I had it before, but I don't know where it came,' the recognition is indefinite ; if he says : ' It was the third of the series,' the recognition is definite. The number of terms in the series, the order in which they are given, the sense depart- ment from which they are taken, and the interval separating the series from the single impression, must all be varied in different sets of experiments. — If the other conditions are kept the same, definite recognition will be found to be uniformly dependent upon the length of the time interval, so that the dependence is expres- sible by a mathematical formula. (3) A grey disc, which we will call the standard grey, is shown to the observer, say, for 5 sec. After a given interval, he is shown either the standard grey, or a grey which is somewhat lighter or darker than the standard, and required to say whether or not it is the same as the standard. The time interval is increased until mistakes begin to be made ; and the amount of error which 2/0 Recognition, Memory and Imagination each increase of interval brings with it is noted by the experi- menter. (4) There can be no doubt that verbal association is extremely important for recognition. Experiments can best be made by a method similar to that described under (2) above. Prepare two series of discs, of different brightnesses. Each series must begin with white and end with black, but one is to contain five terms in all, and the other nine. The difference between every successive pair of greys must be the same for sensation ; i.e., you must choose your discs in accordance with Weber's law (§ 27). Present a series to the subject, going in regular order, from black to white or white to black. After a brief interval, show him some member of the series, taken at random, and ask him what place it occupied in the original series. As long as you test him by the 5 -series, he will make no mistakes ; he is able to remem- ber the discs by the verbal associations * black,' ' dark grey,' '■ grey,' * light grey,' ' white.' But when you take the 9-series, he is con- stantly making mistakes; he has no verbal association to guide him. You can convince yourself that it is really the verbal association which is doing the work of recognition by the following variation of the experiment. Show the series of nine brightnesses, and name each disc as you show it : * one, two, three,' etc. The observer's mistakes at once decrease ; he recognises a given grey not by any grey-name, but by help of the number-name ' four ' or ^ five.' § 74. Recognition and Memory. — We have seen that the recognitive consciousness consists of three sets of pro- cesses: a presented idea, the centrally aroused supple- ments of this idea, and a mood. So far as it is composed of sensations and their derivatives, we have in it a simul- taneous association of ideas. Simultaneous associations of ideas may be of three kinds : associations of peripherally aroused ideas, of centrally aroused ideas, and of peripherally and centrally § 75- '^^^^ Memory 'Idea 271 aroused ideas. An association of the first kind does not occur in the developed consciousness, except in the form of a cognition; no complex of objects shown to us for the first time can be so utterly unknown and strange that it is not indefinitely recognised as a ' machine ' or ' some sort of a plant,' etc. When you are shown a seismograph tracing for the first time, you may be wholly unable to say what it represents ; but at least you know that it is a scrawl, a tracing of some kind. An association of the second type, which is accompanied by the recognitive mood, is termed a 'memory.' The name * recognition ' is applied only to associations of peripherally and centrally aroused ideas. A meinory^ then, is a centrally aroused idea, centrally supplemented, and attended by the mood of * at home.' The memory consciousness is the recognitive conscious- ness, with the single difference that the principal idea, the idea remembered, is of central origin. We have now (i) to examine the nature of the centrally aroused idea, and note the points in which it differs from the periphe- rally aroused, and (2) to enquire into the conditions of the central arousal of complex mental processes. § 75. The Memory-Idea. — If we have witnessed a bad accident, we are * haunted ' for some little time by mental pictures which represent it ; the scene keeps repeating itself before our mind's eye. And we come home from the hearing of a light opera with ' our head full ' of airs ; they sing themselves to our mental ear, whether we will or no. In instances like these we have the most {primitive form of the incinory-idca. The memory-idea is originally a 2/2 Recognition^ Memory and Imagination sort of continued after-image (§ 24), an after-image which persists long after the peripheral effects of the stimulus have passed away. It is the mental counterpart of the central (cortical) portion of the total excitation set up by the stimulus. The memory-idea, at this stage, does not differ in quality from its peripheral predecessor. The pallor of the injured man's face, the colour of his clothing, the blood issuing from the crushed limb, are all branded upon consciousness, and remain what they were. The memory-idea is, how- ever, less intensive, less clear in outline, and as a rule less permanent than the peripheral. We are not so liable to be sickened by our memory of the accident as we were by the sight of it, however vivid the memory may be ; the details of the scene are less sharply cut than they were in reality ; and there is a greater likelihood of the memory being ousted by other ideas, of its losing hold upon the attention, than there was while we were spectators of the actual occurrence. Although, therefore, the memory-idea is, on the side of quality, a representation or reprodnction of the accident or operatic air, the intensity, duration and extension of its component sensations are sufficiently dif- ferent from those of its original to prevent any danger of confusion. But if at first the memory-idea gives a photographic reproduction of the qualities which it represents, it soon begins to lose its qualitative accuracy. It is thrust out of consciousness, and brought back again; it is overrun by other memories ; it forms connections with a host of other ideas. It is no wonder, then, that as time goes on it becomes very dissimilar from its original. Indeed, if our memories were composed exclusively of reproductions, § 75- T^^^ Memory-Idea ly^t they would be untrustworthy as regards events which had occurred even within a few days of their recall. Fortunately, however, the fact that every idea in con- sciousness tends to form connections with other ideas, — a fact which might have been the ruin of memory, — proves to be its salvation. A consideration of two points will make this clear, (i) Every experience, however com- plex, can be expressed by a number of words, a verbal description. Now we have seen that verbal association is one of the most important forms of simultaneous association ; the associated word or words put the seal of finality upon the experience. And the word-idea, the visual, auditory and tactual complex (§ 53), is a relatively stable idea ; it is one of those mental processes which have come to be used for the sake of what they mean, rather than for their own sake ; its intrinsic interest has entirely worn off (§ 56). Hence it comes about that the word-idea, which originally served to clinch a simultaneous association of other ideas, tends to replace these ; our memory of past events is very frequently nothing more than the reproduction of the form of words which we have associated to them; we say that we 'remember' hear- ing Patti sing twenty years ago, when all that we really remember is our own statement of the fact. (2) Every mind has, in virtue of its special constitution, a tendency to the formation of connections in one sense department rather than in others. Although we could localise a press- ure upon the back of the head either by organic sensa- tions or by a visual picture of the part touched, most of us do, as a matter of fact, use the visual picture. The ordi- nary consciousness is dominated by visual ideas {cf. §§4, 7, 16, 21, 43, 44) ; the average man and woman think only 2/4 Recognition^ Memory and Imagination of how they look, not of how they sound, or of how their favourite perfume may offend the noses of their fellow- men. Indeed, the word ' idea ' (form, image) bears suffi- cient witness to the fact, and further evidence is furnished by the phrases: 'Just imagine!' ' Figicrez vous ! ' and * Stellen Sie sich vor ! ' When our memory of a past event is reproductive, then, — instead of being merely verbal, — it will be reproduct- ive, as a general rule, upon the visual side ; the auditory, olfactory, gustatory and tactual reproductions will, if they appear at all, be quite vague and wholly subordi- nate to their visual associates. Less frequent is the occur- rence of an auditory or tactual type of memory, of a consciousness dominated not by vision but by the ideas of hearing or touch. Memories of this kind have, how- ever, been described ; and their existence follows natu- rally from the known differences of mental constitution. It is to be noted that the predominance of one kind of mem- ory, the preference given to connections within a single sense department, is rarely carried so far that no other memories are at the disposal of consciousness. However strong one's tend- ency to visual thought, it is not probable that one will read a book entirely by eye, without faint auditory reproductions (words heard) and weak innervations of the muscles of the larynx (words spoken) . Many people who have a definite leaning in, say, the visual direction, are nevertheless able, when occasion arises, to think in terms of hearing and touch ; and these supplementary memories are susceptible of great improvement by education and practice. We must, therefore, recognise a * mixed ' memory type, alongside of the visual, auditory and tactual. A ' mixed ' memory is, obviously, of greater practical service to its possessor than a '■ pure ' memory. In the first place, more aspects of the physical world can be reproduced in consciousness, §§ 75> 7^- ^^^^ Memory-Idea ; Retention 275 /.^., memory is more complete ; and secondly, what is remembered is remembered in more ways, i.e., memory is more reliable. Just as we ' hear ' a lecturer better if we keep our eyes upon his face, so we remember an event better if various senses are called upon to furnish the idea which reproduce it. We have a good instance of the customary predominance of vision in the fact that dream-ideas are almost exclusively visual. The organic sensations attending an indigestion are translated, as it were, into the visual picture of a monster seated upon our chest ; the pins and needles of a cramped arm are translated into the picture of an acquaintance who nips us with a pair of pincers, etc. Since the raw material of memory-ideas consists, in every case, of centrally aroused sensations, it is natural that memory should obey Weber's law in every instance where the law holds for the corresponding peripheral sensations. Thus our memory for bright- nesses is relative; the distribution of light and shade in a painting is accepted as a correct representation of reality, although the landscape painted was, absolutely, very much brighter than any- thing on the painted canvas can be. Our memory of a melody is also relative (§ 50) ; we recognise it, as it is now played, although it may be played in a different key from that in which we have heard it rendered on former occasions. On the other hand, our memory for colours is absolute. § 76. Retention. — An idea is formed, in correspondence with an object or process of the outside world. It lapses from consciousness, to be recalled after a certain interval. What becomes of it in the meantime } , So long as the idea was regarded as a permanent 'thing,' an unchanging 'bit' of mind, there could be but one answer to this question. The idea must be somehow conserved, retained, from the time of its formation ; it is laid away, unregarded, in the outermost fringe of con- sciousness; but it still persists, as a conscious fact, only 2/6 Recognition, Memory and Imagination waiting its time to attract the attention and come to the front again. We have rejected the view that the idea is a thing, and have regarded it always as a process, a becoming. But even if we had not, we should be unable to obtain from introspection any warrant for the view that the mind is a storehouse, containing all the ideas which have at any time formed part of our experience, (i) There are many occasions when we wish to remember an event or a name or a date, but cannot do so ; when we cannot find the desired idea, search consciousness as closely as we may. If the idea were there, it would surely be discoverable, (2) Consciousness is complex enough ; but there is no evidence that it is so enormously complex as the theory would require. We can hardly imagine what would be the complexity of the adult consciousness, if every single conscious process had to be stored away. In other words, the fact that we forget is as indubitable as the fact that we remember. Some events never are remembered. (3) The fact that we forget may be brought out in another way. If all our ideas were retained by consciousness, we should have a complete panorama of our past life ; we could pass from idea to idea without a single break. The adult reader will need very little introspection to assure him that his memory is really fragmentary, that there are great gaps in his reproduction of past experi- ence. A diary written forty years ago will speak of incidents which cannot be reconstructed ; and the friends referred to familiarly by their initials will have dropped out of mind so completely that the letters are entirely meaningless. There is no such thing as mental retention, the per- § 76. Retention 2'J'J sistence of an idea from month to month or year to year in some mental pigeon-hole from which it can be drawn when wanted. What persists is the tendency to connec- tion (§ 55). The view from my window reminds me of a certain Swiss landscape. It may be that certain visual qualities or arrangements presented by it were also pre- sented by the Swiss landscape ; it may be that the form of words which I use to describe its beauties is in part the same as that which I use to describe the Swiss scene. In either case, the idea of the Swiss landscape is formed afreshy r^-formed (under the general conditions of associa- tive supplementing), whenever it is suggested by a glance from my window. Certain elements in the given idea or its supplements have formed certain habits of connec- tion ; and these tendencies to connect are realised under favourable conditions. The idea of the Swiss landscape is 'available' (§ 53) ; but I do not keep it by me, ready made. When the connection is formed, I have the recognitive mood ; I recognise parts of the view as parts of the Swiss landscape, and feel at home in regard to them. — How definite the recognition is, in a particular case, will depend upon circumstances ; I may have simply the indefinite idea that I have 'seen something like this view before.' ' Nevertheless, there must be retention somewhere/ the reader may object ; ' for how could the tendency to connect persist with- out it?' The objection is valid. But we must look for retention not in consciousness, but in the physiological processes which constitute its condition. The cerebral cortex is retentive. When a certain group of cells has been exploded in a certain way, it retains a disposition to explode again in the same way ; every exercise of nervous function leaves behind it a functional dispo- sition. The Swiss landscape cells, having been all exploded together, are disposed to explode together again, when any one 2/8 Recognition^ Memory and Imagination member of the group is exploded by a present stimulus. The strength of the functional disposition in a particular case depends upon practice, i.e., the frequency of common functioning in the past, and upon bodily tendency. § "jy. Memory and Cognition. — We have seen that a peripherally aroused idea, if it is of frequent occurrence, ceases to be recognised and becomes cognised. Its cen- tral supplements drop off, and the * at home ' mood changes to the * of course ' mood. We have a precisely parallel process in the case of memory. A centrally aroused idea, if it is of frequent occurrence in consciousness, ceases to be remembered, and becomes cognised. Its central supplements fall away, and the recognitive mood gives place to the cognitive. We solve a geometrical problem, e.g., by the help of definitions, axioms, postulates, and the results of our solu- tion of previous problems. As we work, these postulates and previous solutions occur to us ; their ideas are centrally aroused. But they need not bear the memory mark : they need not be supplemented by the ideas of the book from which we learned them, of our early struggles with their difficulty, of the schoolroom, of the master who taught us, etc., and they need not bring the mood of familiarity with them, — they may be matters of course. Under these cir- cumstances we must call them not memories but cognitions. K§ 78. The Investigation of Memory. — The experimental investigation of memory, like that of recognition, is still in its first beginnings. Three problems suggest them- selves : (i) How shall we determine the subject's memory type, and how educate his less developed memories t (2) How long does a reproduction retain its quality, i.e., resist the influence of the other contents of consciousness, and § y8. The Investigation of Memory 279 remain what it originally was, an exact photograph of a physical object or process ? (3) What is the range of memory ; i.e., how many connections can be formed in a given time? No one of these three questions has been satisfactorily answered, though something can be said upon each topic. Method. — (i) The best way to determine memory type is to examine one's memory-ideas introspectively, to ascertain what one's memory of a given event actually is. This method, how- ever, can be safely used only by a highly practised and impartial observer. Consciousness must be taken ' off its guard,' at all times and seasons, and all sorts of memories scrutinised. It is important to note not only what has been remembered, but also what has been forgotten : the subject must imagine the total event, which his memory represents, and see how much of the imagina- tion is indicated by the memory. Another method is that of description. Write out all that you remember of an occurrence, and go over your description care- fully, noting what kind of incidents are recalled (things seen, things heard, etc.), and what omitted. — Something may also be done by judicious questioning, by the method of suggestion. Suggest some familiar event to the subject, and note how accu- rately he is able to reproduce it. Introspection by the subject himself will be of great assistance here. . A rudimentary memory can best be trained by the method of reproduction. If the subject has a poor visual memory, show him series of simple visual designs, and let him reproduce them on paper after a brief interval. As his memory improves, the com- plexity of the designs must be increased, and the interval length- ened. If he has a poor auditory memory, let him have passages read aloud to him, and attempt, after a given interval, to repeat what he heard. If he has a poor tactual memory, let him practise a finger-exercise upon the piano keyboard, until his fingers run ' of themselves ' ; or let him close his ears, and repeat some famil- iar sentence aloud, until he has the ' feel ' of the words in his 28o Recognition^ Memory mid Imagination throat. The attention must, of course, be concentrated as exclu- sively as possible upon that aspect of the stimulus which it is desired to remember. (2) The method of description is, perhaps, the best for testing the quahtative accuracy of memory. No investigation, however, has as yet been made. Another possible method is that of cojn- parison. The subject calls up a memory-idea, visual, auditory, or what not, and when it has become quite clear in consciousness, is asked to compare it with a given impression. The impression is something which more or less nearly resembles the object which the subject's memory-idea represents. (3) The range of memory may be tested as follows. Prepare a number of nonsense syllables, each consisting of two consonants and a vowel, — say, 1000 in all. Form series, quite at random, making the series of different lengths: 5, 10, 15, etc. Read a series aloud, repeating the reading until you can say the syllables through ' by heart.' Note the time, i.e., the number of repetitions, required for the memorising of the different series. Care must be taken to read always at the same rate, in the same rhythm, and with the same degree of attention. You will find that, with fairly short series, the range of memory is proportional to the time spent in memorising, i.e.,- to the num- ber of repetitions. The longer you take to learn, the oftener you go over the series, the better you remember. The investigation of memory is rendered peculiarly dif- ficult by the fact (§ 75) that our memory of an event is not a reproduction, an exact representation of it. For prac- tical purposes, we may congratulate ourselves that memory- ideas, like v^ords, come to be attended to not for what they are in themselves, but for what they mean. Even when they are, in part, reproductive (as we assumed in our dis- cussion of Retention, and as is the case when we recall a scene by visual memory, or an air by auditory), the repro- duction is exceedingly incomplete, and is attended to not § /S- TJie Investigation of Memory 281 as a reproduction but as a symbol of a total experience. But when we set to work to examine memory, by psycho- logical methods, we are at once confronted by the ques- tion : What is the particular symbol, reproductive, verbal, etc., which this particular subject employs in his memories } Until this question has been answered, — and its answer is by no means easy, — further investigation is impossible. It follows from our description of recognition and memory that we cannot recognise and remember an affection. We can, of course, recognise and remember an idea of affection (§ 59). But when we wish to revive a pleasantness or unpleasantness we do so by fixing the attention upon the ideas to which it attached : we call back the (pleasant or unpleasant) 'situation.' The mem- ory-ideas, which represent the original experience, are, naturally, accompanied by the affection which coloured that experience. The more complete and accurate the reproduction of the situa- tion, the stronger is the affection which attaches to it. As a rule, however, the reproduction is so fragmentary, and the new connec- tions which its part-processes have formed so numerous, that the ' revived ' affection is very considerably weaker than its original. Indeed, it may have changed to the opposite quaHty. However vividly we recall a punishment of our school-days, we cannot feel the unpleasantness now as we felt it at the time. And if we suffer the reproductive ideas to bring into consciousness the ideas which have become associated to them in our subsequent life, the un- pleasantness may not be felt at all : we may smile as we recall the experience ; unpleasantness has changed into pleasantness. In Chapter VII we refused to make any distinction between the perception and the idea. It may now occur to the reader that the refusal was ill-advised ; that to distinguish recognition from memory we have been compelled to distinguish the peripherally aroused from the centrally aroused idea ; and that it would make our psychology easier if we said that perceptions were recognised and ideas remembered. 282 Recognition^ Memory and Imagination As a matter of fact, it is just because the distinction is of practi- cal importance only, and not of scientific value, that we refused to make it. Practically, in everyday life, there is a difference between the recognitive and the memory consciousnesses ; scien- tifically, there is no difference. No centrally aroused idea, that is to say, is intrinsically a memory-idea : its qualities are the quali- ties of peripherally aroused ideas, and its mode of formation does not differ from theirs. It is only in virtue of a certain function or meaning that it becomes a memory-idea. It might be well, perhaps, to reject the term * memory ' alto- gether, and to speak only of recognition. But ' memory,' like the phrase 'association of ideas,' has been employed by psychology for so many centuries, and is rooted so deeply in popular thinking, that we can do no more, at present, than give a psychological analysis of it, and emphasise the fact that it is not a specific mental process or mental faculty. § 79. The Nature and Forms of Imagination. — Psy- chologists distinguish two forms of imagination : the reproductive or passive, and the productive, active or constructive. (i) Reprodtictive Imagination. — No idea can enter the adult consciousness for the first time without being in some way supplemented. There must be part-processes in it which, as constituents of other ideas, have formed habits of connection. We speak of reproductive imagination in cases where the supplementing of a new idea is a re- productive supplementing, a supplementing in kind. I read a traveller's description of an African forest, and picture the forest as I read ; or I receive the score of a new opera, and the music si^igs itself to me as I run my eye over the printed notes. The visual ideas of the forest are derived from the memories of forests which I have actually seen ; and the auditory ideas are aroused because § 79- '^^^^ Nature and Forms of Imagination 28 the printed notes have, from past experience, definite con- nections with musical sounds. But the total experience is neither a memory nor a recognition. I have neither seen the forest nor heard the opera ; and though the reproduc- tions have the recognitive mood attaching to them, the central ideas, the printed pages, have not. Imaginations of this kind are only possible in consciousnesses whose corresponding memories are in part reproductive. If my reproductive memory is exclusively auditory, I cannot picture the African forest, though I can imagine its mysterious noises. If my reproductive memory is exclusively visual, I cannot imagine how the opera sounds. It is to be noted that memory-ideas, especially if they are ver- bal, may have among their supplements reproductive ideas which are really imaginative, though introspection would regard them as true memories. When I say 'I heard Patti sing twenty years ago,' the form of words may be all that I remember. But as I think or utter the words, they arouse in my mind ideas of a stage, of the singer, etc., so that there is every appearance of a visual memory. The visual ideas in this case are not reproductions of the original scene ; they are a new construction of it, suggested by the words. It is impossible to distinguish this ' secondary reproductive mem- ory ' from the true reproductive memory, unless we can compare our ideas with a more trustworthy account of the event remem- bered. Thus I may be sure, from ' memory,' that the singer wore a pink dress when I heard her. The form of words has somehow become connected in consciousness with the reproductive idea of a pink dress, and the whole complex brings the recognitive mood with it. My neighbour, however, has positive evidence that the dress was white, and not pink. I have imagined the pink, then ; although from the point of view of introspection, the experience is a memory. (2) Constructive Imaginatiott. — The processes which we have so far discussed in this chapter, — recognition, mem- 284 Recognition, Memory and Imagination ory and reproductive imagination, — are all, so far as they are composed of ideas, instances of simultaneous association. We may have recognition at different levels of definiteness, in one experience ; as in the illustration * University man ' (indefinite recognition), ^ Smith ' (less indefinite), ' that Smith ' (definite recognition). This whole process may be described as a successive association ; and as each of its three terms is accompanied by the recognitive mood, it is tempting to speak of it as a process of recognition, and so to make recognition itself a successive association. But as a matter of fact, the experience contains three succes- sive recognitions, each of which is complete in itself. — We may have, in the same way, a train of memory-ideas : but * a ' memory is a simultaneous association. The same thing holds of reproductive imagination. In constructive imagination, on the other hand, we have an instance of successive association, — of association after disjunction. Some of the ideas associated may be central and some peripheral, or all alike of central origin. Thus suppose that a poet desires to give a description of a storm at sea. He has a mass of memory-ideas and of reproductive imaginations in consciousness. His attention turns from one to another of these, selecting the striking incidents, and rejecting those of minor importance. Now it may happen that a severe thunderstorm comes within his actual experience. The presented ideas are taken into consciousness, and worked over by the attention along with the rest. The poem is written after the moving in- cidents have been detached from their settings, and reas- sociated by the attention. The result of imagination here is a poem, a series of successive verbal associations (judgments). Had we taken § 8o. Ilhisions of Recognition and Memory 285 the inventor, in place of the poet, for an illustration, we should have had as the result of imagination some machine or instrument. This is a closer copy of the associations found within the imaginative consciousness than the poem could be ; the poem is a translation of the imaginative ideas, standing to them as a verbal description of the in- strument stands to the designer's imagination of it. The process of imagination, however, is the same in both cases : it is a ' thinking ' or judging not in words, but in reproduct- ive ideas. Psychologically, then, there is no difference between the 'imagination' of the poet and the * thought' of the inventor. Both consciousnesses alike are composed pre- dominantly of reproductive ideas. The only difference is in the material (printed words on bits of metal) which expresses the associations found among them. § 80. Illusions of Recognition and Memory. — Illusory memories and recognitions are of two kinds : we may re- member or recognise something which is really unfamiliar to us, and we may fail to recognise or remember some- thing which was once familiar. Both types of illusion are quite common. Most people have had experience of what is called para- mnesia, — a 'feeling' that 'this has all happened before,' which continues in spite of the knowledge that the experi- ence is novel. Various explanations have been offered of the phenomenon. The simplest appears to be the follow- ing. Certain part-processes of the novel experience are in- definitely recognised ; they are vaguely supplemented, and evoke the recognitive mood. The vague supplementary ideas are checked, forced out of consciousness, by the knowledge that the situation has not occurred in previous 286 Recognition^ Memory and Imccgination experience ; but the verbal supplement ' familiar ' still per- sists, and carries with it the mood of ' at home.' On the other hand, we fail to recognise or to remember an impression or situation because we have * forgotten ' it ; i.e.^ because its connections with other ideas, at the time of its presentation, were not often enough repeated, did not attract the attention, did not fit in with our mental constitution, etc. (§ 55). We do not remember the events of our early childhood, partly because our mental constitu- tion was of the * scatter-brained ' type, and no impression held the attention for any long time or with any degree of power, but more especially because they occurred before we had learned to speak fluently, i.e., before they could be fixed in our minds by verbal association, and so constantly repeated in verbal form. CHAPTER XII Self-consciousness and Intellection § 8 1. Self-consciousness. — A 'self,' in the psychological meaning of the term, is a mind ; the mind which is given together with an individual body, and whose constitution is determined by that body. My ' self ' is the sum total of conscious processes which run their course under the conditions laid down by my bodily tendencies. Selfhood, that is, is the special and peculiar way in which the processes of an individual mind are arranged, in which they hold together or break apart, follow or accompany one another. The meaning of ' self ' includes the mean- ings of 'mind' and of 'mental constitution,' and at the same time makes these meanings very definite : the * mind ' is thought of as consisting not merely of ' ideas,' 'feelings,' etc., but of tJicsc ideas and those feelings; and the ' mental constitution ' is thought of not as a general 'reasonableness' or ' sanguineness,' but as the familiar and especial reasonableness or sanguineness of a jDartic- ular man. It is the combination of these two meanings in the same word that makes it possible for us to say that every individual is a different self. The raw materials of all normal minds are the same : a certain limited number of sensations and affections. Regarded as minds, then, all normal minds are alike. But regarded as selves, they 287 288 Self -Consciousness and Intellection differ in two ways. In the first place, no two mental constitutions are precisely similar ; the ' shape ' of one man's mind (§ 35) is never exactly like his neighbour's. And secondly, though two men may be so far alike mentally that we are obliged to speak of their mental con- stitutions as the same, — although the bodily moulds in which their mental experience is run are so far similar that we speak of both their memories as ' logical ' and both their temperaments as 'phlegmatic,' — yet the con- crete processes of which their minds are made up are dissimilar. The fact that they are born at different times, or brought up in different homes, is enough to give the stamp of individuality to the groupings of sen- sations and affections of which their consciousnesses are composed. My 'self,' then, is my mind conceived of as working in my way. A self-consciousness is a consciousness in which the idea of such a psychological self occupies the princi- pal place, — is, as it were, the centre of interest to which all the other components of that consciousness are referred, and from which they receive a special significance. The problem which self-consciousness sets us is, therefore, twofold: How does one come to have an idea of one's own mind, and of the way in which its workings differ from those of other minds } And of what part-processes is the idea of self, as it appears in the normal conscious- ness, ordinarily composed 1 The second question is the easier of the two to answer. There are certain mental processes which come to the forefront of consciousness whenever I think of myself, which are the invariable constituents of a self-conscious- ness. These processes are common, organic and cutaneous § 8 1. Self -Consciousness 289 sensations (pressures, pains, temperatures, strains, respir- atory sensations, etc.); the visual picture of my body, in some characteristic attitude and dress ; and the verbal idea of ' I ' or ' my.' The reason for the prominence of these processes is not far to seek. The organic sensations remain, for the most part, practically unchanged, through- out the life of the organism, neither advancing nor degen- erating. Very few of them rise to the level of ideas (§ 51); they are not a medium of communication, as sights and sounds are ; they are able to attract the attention more exclusively than is usual among sensations, — in other words, they have an unusually strong affective tone, and so are liable to be swamped in feelings (§ 56); they are * subjective ' processes, not representative of objects or processes of the world outside our own body. The visual picture of the body or of parts of it is, also, always with us ; we cannot escape from it. And ' I ' or ' my ' is the verbal associate of both these sets of processes. The remaining contents of the idea of self may vary within wide limits. Thus the idea may be that of the total self, or of some partial self, my national, social or professional self, or my moral, rehgious or scientific self. Each of these ideas will con- tain a different group of reproductions, or a different set of verbal supplements ; though the core of all — the essential components of the idea of self — remains the same. The idea of self is rendered exceedingly stable by the constant repetition of the connections among its components. It is further cemented, welded together, by pleasantness and unpleasantness. Those who can recall the dawning of self-consciousness in their own Hfe assert that the experience has its root in an intense pain (common sensation and unpleasantness) or an intense pleasure. And in the adult Hfe, the self-idea, except when called up for purposes of psychological or philosophical examination, is hardly 290 Self -Consciousness and Intellection ever indifferent. It is often coloured by a strongly affective senti- ment; perhaps by vanity or pride (pleasant), perhaps by shame or remorse (unpleasant), — according to the circumstances under which it appears. Otherwise, it rests upon a background of affect- ive temperament : one thinks of oneself with self-satisfaction or self-depreciation. In popular parlance, ' self-consciousness ' denotes a temperament of this kind, a conceited or bashful dis- position. The idea of self is plainly not an idea in the precise sense in which we defined that term (§51). It is rather a complex of ideas and sensations \ a simultaneous association, any part of which can be brought into prominence by the attention. Its complexity is shown by the fact that we speak of a self ' consciousness ' as well as of the 'idea 'of self. Nevertheless, the close connection of its components, and its singleness of meaning, lead us to term it an ' idea.' Complexes of this sort are sometimes called aggt^egate ideas. We have already had illustrations of the part played by aggregate ideas in the mental life : the complexes which are disjoined by the attention in judgment and constructive imagination are aggre- gate ideas. At this point we are met by a new difficulty. An idea is, by definition, the conscious representative of an object or process of the physical world. Surely, then, our ter- minology is wrong ; for the ' idea of self ' seems to be the idea of our inside world. Apparently, we must either give up our definition or admit that the ' idea ' of self is not an idea at all. We may, however, find a means of escape from this dilemma by attempting to solve the first of the two prob- lems set us by self-consciousness : How do we come to have the ' self -idea ' at all t If we can discover the way in which this complex is put together, our explanation § 8 1. Self -Consciousness 291 may help us to decide whether there is any justification for calUng it an ' idea ' or not. We pass, then, to the iirst of our two questions. How do we come to have an idea of our * self ' } — We must remember that the individual human being: is born into a society, and passes his life in a society. We obtain an idea of our mental constitution by noticing the differences that exist between those about us, and by hearing from them how they look upon us (§ 35). In the same way, we obtain an idea of our self, in the first instance, from parents, teachers and companions. From the time when we begin to understand the words spoken in our hearing, we are familiar with the term 'mind,' with the fact that minds differ, and with the use of personal names or pronouns to denote the different persons to whom these minds are ascribed. Under these conditions, it is possible to 'objectify' oneself, to imagine how one looks, thinks, acts, etc., as if the self were really some- thing apart, something of the same kind as the objects or processes of one's physical surroundings. When we have an idea of self, the self is, so to speak, projected outwards into the world, and there surveyed. The idea of the internal world is projected into the external world, and only thus does it become an idea. We have a parallel to this process of objectifying or projection not only in the idea of mental constitution, but also in that of affection ('^^^_^..<^ 7 form a, which is the minute idea, ' /& is plainly a blurred reminiscence of CL the seconds' dial of a watch or Fig. 9. clock ; and the form b, which rep- resents the second, is the picture of one of the division-marks upon the circumference of the dial. In this case, an experience in early childhood has determined the form of the abstract idea for the rest of life. The sign for a 'second of arc' ("), learned later than the form of the watch- dial, has not been able to change the single stroke, which first meant a second, into two strokes. There is no lack of experiments to show that the concept, the verbal associate of the abstract idea, is the most prompt and ready supplement of a given impression. We have no doubt that a particular impression is a ' sound ' ; but we may be very doubt- ful as to its exact nature. We have no doubt that two given impressions are ' different ' ; but we may be wholly unable to say wherein their difference consists. We have no doubt that a face is ' famihar 'to us ; but we may be completely at a loss to de- scribe the circumstances under which it became familiar. Method. — Set down the points of a pair of drawing compasses upon the skin, as explained in § 44, starting from so small a se- § 84. Reasoning 299 paration of the points that but a single impression is sensed. Gradually increase the separation, till the two points are distin- guishable. You will find at this stage that though the subject is certain of the duality of the impression (general concept), he is entirely unable to state the direction of the straight line joining the two points (more special concept). — In the same way, cuta- neous movement is perceived sooner than the direction of the movement ; a stimulus is cognised as a light stimulus before its specific quality can be made out, etc. Pathology confirms our position, showing that concepts, which are most often associated to given ideas, are also more firmly attached to them than are any other verbal supplements. When memory begins to fail, with advancing age, it is the concrete words which are first forgotten : personal names, particular names of all kinds. Abstract words, concepts, remain longest of all. It is hardly possible to forget that a certain complex of visual stimuli is a ' man ' ; it is quite possible to forget that it is ' George.' § 84. Reasoning. — Reasoning is the name given to a successive association of judgments. It is thus the verbal counterpart of the reproductive processes involved in con- structive imagination. As total processes, the reproduc- tive associations of the poet or inventor and the verbal associations of the scientific thinker are one and the same : both are a series of associations after disjunction. The dif- ference in the nature of the constituent part-processes, the difference between reproductive and verbal ideas, points simply to a difference of mental constitution. In every association 'two ideas are brought into connec- tion. When the connection itself has become the object of attention, when, i.e.y we have formed an idea of connec- tion, as distinct from the ideas which are connected, we speak of it as relation. Now reasoning, like the verbal simultaneous association, and like the judgment, has upon 300 Self -Consciousness and Intellection it the mark of completeness, of finality. This plainly means that reasoning, as defined above, is possible only when we have among our available stock of ideas an ex- plicit idea of relation ; for unless we know a relation when we see it, we may lengthen out our series of judgments indefinitely, on the pattern of a train of ideas, and pass our goal without realising that we have attained it. Reason- ing, then, implies an idea of relation ; an idea which guides us in our argument, as the idea of movement guides us in the performance of an action. What are the part-processes contained in the idea of relation 1 And how is the idea formed } — The idea may be reproductive or verbal. In the former case, it consists of a picture of certain objects or processes as somehow bound or chained or clamped together ; in the latter, sim- ply of the word * relation,' auditory, visual or tactual. The idea is formed very much as the ideas of mind, self and mental constitution are formed. We grow up among people who have the idea of relation ; who speak in terms of cause and effect, likeness and difference, substance and attribute, whole and part, etc. As to the original formation of the idea of relation, in the past history of the human race, we can do no more than speculate. It must be remembered (i) that the relation expressed in the judgment is a relation of parts now dissociated, but originally together in the aggregate idea; and (2) that primitive man looked at everything from an unconsciously anthropomorphic standpoint. Since in judgment the part is drawn out of the whole, the attribute drawn out of the substance, the effect drawn out of the cause, it may be that a pictorial idea of connection or relation took shape at a very early stage of thought. What a man makes or does ' belongs ' to him ; that is, his mind lengthens out to it, holds to it, as if by a physical bond. If the § 85. Comparison or Discrimination, and Abstraction 301 clouds are looked on as men who make the rain, the sun as a man who makes the rainbow, etc., this idea of belonging, of being con- nected, might easily assume definite form. From the reproductive or pictorial idea to the verbal, and from the more concrete to the more abstract verbal idea, are steps of no difficulty. We have indications of the pictorial origin of the idea in the word ^connection' (Lat. nectere, to bind), and in the German 'Beziehung' {ziehen; cf. 'tie') and ' Verhaltniss ' {Jialten ; cf. 'hold'). 'Relation' suggests to us that the association is an association after disjunction {re-ferre, to put back again). 'Asso- ciation ' itself emphasises the after, the temporal position of that which is associated {ad-socius, from seqiior, I follow) . §85. Comparison or Discrimination, and Abstraction. — We speak of a comparison of two impressions when the ideas which they arouse in consciousness call up the verbal associate 'alike' or 'different.' Discrimination is used, in strictness, to express the process which termi- nates with the verbal association ' different,' but its mean- ing has been extended to include judgments of likeness as well ; so that it is used synonymously with comparison. We have in this process of comparison or discrimination, then, a case of verbal association. Sometimes the associa- tion is simultaneous ; the word ' comes up,' and com- parison is at an end. Sometimes the association is succes- sive, the impression being judged part by part, and the word coming only after a series of judgments has been passed. Under normal circumstances, every comparison which leads to the judgment 'like' is accompanied by the recognitive mood. A comparison which leads to the judgment ' different ' has no specific mood attaching to it. The process of comparison, as thus depicted in outhne, is seen to be of a very simple kind. Its place in mental development, 302 Self -Consciousness and Intellection however, is a high one : for the reason that it presupposes the formation of the concepts of Hkeness and difference. Verbal association and judgment are, in themselves, comparatively simple processes ; but when the word associated or predicated is a fully formed concept, we realise that the simplicity of form is decep- tive, that much mental elaboration lies behind. We may compare two peripherally aroused ideas, two central ideas, or a peripheral with a central idea. In the first case, we turn quickly from idea to idea, having in mind at any given moment the actual presentation of the one and a direct reproduc- tive image of the other. In the second, we have in mind, as a rule, a verbally supplemented reproduction of each of the com- pared ideas, and turn the attention quickly from the one to the other as before. In the third, we have a presentation on the one side, and some memory symbol (word, part-reproduction, etc.) on the other. It seems, from laboratory experience, that we never attempt to compare a presented idea with a complete reproductive picture of another ; distrust of the reproduction appears to have become ' instinctive ' with us. It might be thought that as the mood of ' at home ' attaches to the judgment of likeness, a mood of strangeness would attach to the judgment of difference. But we must be careful not to con- fuse * difference ' with ' lack of familiarity.' If an event is differ- ent from what we expected it to be, we do have a mood of apprehension or disappointment, a mood which in its weakest form could best be described as that of ' strangeness.' But many differences are natural, matters of course ; these leave us indiffer- ent. And others are desired and looked for, so that their dis- covery puts us into a pleasurable mood, that of wish fulfilled. The finding of a likeness is always, intrinsically, reassuring, and therefore pleasant {cf. what was said of recognition, § 70). On occasion, of course, it may be unpleasant. If we are comparing two molluscs, in the hope that one of them represents a hitherto unknown species, and both prove to belong to the same, the recognitive mood may be overcome by the emotion of disgust or the sentiment of unsuccessful thought (§ 90). § 85. Co7nparisoii or Discrimination, and Abstraction 303 Abstraction is the name given to that movement of the attention over a complex of ideas, whereby the complex is dissociated, and certain parts of it are rejoined in a judgment or constructive imagination. We are said to ' abstract from ' those portions of the complex which do not arrest the attention, while, on the other hand, the parts lifted out of the whole by the attention are termed * abstractions.' Thus an abstract idea is an idea in which we abstract from the unessential features of the aggregate idea from which it is derived. It is itself an abstraction, because it is only a part of the aggre- gate idea. The mechanism of the process has been described above (§ TyZ~). CHAPTER XIII Sentiment § 86. The Nature of Sentiment. — When we were ana- lysing emotion, we found that its core or centre is made up of a strong feeling, by which the current train of ideas is interrupted. The organism has to face a situation. It does this by way of passive attention ; the situation over- whelms it, takes undisputed possession of consciousness. At the same time the body falls into some characteristic attitude ; a characteristic group of organic sensations is aroused. And the central feeling is reinforced by a num- ber of associated ideas. If in our description of this total process we write 'strongly affective judgment' for 'strong feeling,' we have the essentials of the sentiment. A situation has to be faced. It is in this case too complex to be faced by way of passive attention ; the active attention must play upon it, and a judgment be passed. A 'situation,' as we have seen (§ 59), is a serious matter : the judgment will be strongly pleasant or unpleasant. In either case, it is reinforced by other judgments, concepts, or reproductive ideas ; while at the same time expressive movements occur, and give rise to organic sensations. The sentiment, then, stands to the emotion precisely as active stands to passive attention. It is the total affective 304 § 86. The Nature of Sentiment 305 experience which arises when we face a situation by way of active attention, — by means of a judgment. It is the situation — the materials disjoined by the attention for re-association — which determines the affective quahty of the sentiment, as it ordinarily {cf. § 59) does that of the emotion. Hence the sentiment may be either pleasurable or unpleasiirable. The process of judging is also accompanied by affection : it will be pleasant or unpleasant according as the effort involved in the attention is moderate or excessive (§§ 37, t^^). Judgment itself, the completed re-association, is intrinsically pleasant, just as is recognition or instinctive action (§ 70). But its pleasantness is, of course, often swamped by the unpleasantness of the situation. Active attention frequently relapses into passive. Hence it is natural that the sentiment, which is developed out of emotion, and is characteristic of a higher stage of mental differentiation, should readily slip back into emotion. Suppose, e.g., that I sit down to read a story. At first, I have various aesthetic sentiments : I linger over the beauty of the style, or the harmony of the incidents. I have, too, various intellectual sentiments : I feel that the tale is true to life, that its scenes are self-consistent. But as I read, I grow absorbed, — I cease to be '■ critical,' i.e., to be actively attentive. The story takes possession of me, and the writer '■ moves ' me as he will. Sentiment has been entirely replaced by its simpler counterpart, emotion. It must not be supposed that every affective experience which can be referred to a judgment is a sentiment. Many of our judg- ments are not judgments at all in the psychological sense ; they are ready-made formulae, received from others, not won by any exercise of the active attention on our own part. We are so thoroughly accustomed to throw our mental experience into logical form, that we may think or speak of a situation as if we had judged it, when really it has seized us, taken possession of us, and been ' felt ' as a whole, in an emotion. ' Why are you so disgusted ? ' we may be asked. ' I am disgusted because I have been cheated.' The answer is psychologically misleading. It is not the judgment * I have been cheated ' that forms the centre of the emotion of dis- 3o6 Sentiment gust ; it is the feeling set up by the situation. The judgment ' I have been cheated ' is due to a reflection upon the source of the emotion ; it is the most convenient way of conveying to the enquirer an idea of the reason for the emotion. Here, then, it is quite possible to refer the whole experience to a judgment; and yet the experience is not a sentiment. There is no rule more essential, and no rule more difficult to follow, when one is introspectively examining a complex mental process, than this : Do not let a judgment about the facts take the place of the facts themselves. It is all too easy to glide into a series of familiar formulae, which give a rough notion of the ex- perience under investigation. The trained and impartial observer (§ lo) will be on his guard against the temptation, and will arrest himself when he finds that his description is running smoothly, in stereotyped expressions and customary phrases. Every fact re- quires its own form of words, if it is to be adequately described. § 87. The Forms of Sentiment. — There are four great classes of sentiments : the intellectual or logical, the ethi- cal or social, the aesthetic and the religious. The intellectnal sentiments are the affective experiences M^hich grow up round the judgments 'This is true' and 'This is false, as a matter of knowledge.' The ethical sentiments attach to the judgments 'This is good or right ' and ' This is bad or wrong, as a matter of my be- haviour to my fellow-men or of theirs to me ' ; the (esthetic to the judgments 'This is beautiful' and 'This is ugly'; and the religions to the judgments 'This is ' and 'This is not sanctioned by divine command, or in accordance with the divine plan for the government of the universe.' We cannot attempt here to trace the formation of the abstract ideas of 'truth,' 'goodness,' 'beauty,' etc.; we must take it for granted that they have been formed, after the fashion of the ideas of ' self ' and ' relation ' § 88. The Esthetic Sentiments 307 (§§ 81, 84). Taking the concepts for granted, we can see how natural it is that the intellectual, moral and re- ligious judgments should be strongly affective processes. It is of the utmost practical importance to know whether facts agree or do not agree with our opinions, whether reports are true or false, whether an action is good or bad, whether our friends will regard our behaviour, under certain circumstances, as right or wrong, whether a line of conduct is approved or disapproved by the supreme power of the world. The practical importance of the aesthetic judgment is not so obvious. Indeed, the aes- thetic sentiment, the power of the beautiful and the ugly to attract the attention, has always been something of a puzzle to psychologists ; and it cannot be said that the puzzle has even yet been satisfactorily solved. § 88. The iEsthetic Sentiments. — Modern psychology has devoted more attention to the aesthetic sentiments than to the other three groups. This is partly due, no doubt, to the difficulty which they present to psychological analysis ; the intellectual, ethical and religious sentiments are more matters of course. But it is also due, in part, to the fact that the aesthetic sentiments can be examined under experimental conditions and with comparatively simple materials. It is customary to distinguish five aesthetic sentiments : those of beauty, ugliness, the sublime, the comic and the tragic. The two first are of a purely aesthetic character ; the third may be either mixed or pure ; the two last are never wholly aesthetic in nature. I. Under the heading of 'beauty' and 'ugliness' there are five principal forms of the aesthetic judgment : the judg- ment of visual form (architecture, and line in the plastic 308 Senthnent and graphic arts), colour scheme (colour in the plastic and graphic arts), rhythm (dancing, musical form), harmony (music) and melody (music). We need here speak only of the first, second and fourth of these {cf. §§ 47, 48). (i) Visual figures present two aspects for aesthetic appreciation: articulation or division, and contour or outline. The most pleasing division of a simple visual form was, originally, the symmetrical division. Symmetry is repe- tition with reversal : the two hands, two eyes, two halves of a circle, etc., are symmetrical. The proportion of parts, in a symmetrical figure, is accordingly that of equality, 1:1. At a higher level of aesthetic development, the symmet- rical division is replaced by what is known as the golden section : a division of the figure at a point so chosen that the dimensions of the whole are to those of the larger part as the dimensions of the larger part are to those of the smaller. The proportion of parts in a figure divided at the golden section is, approximately, 3:5. Even to-day symmetry holds its own as a principle of aesthetic division. A great deal of decorative work (on walls, ceilings, porcelain, etc.) is of the symmetrical type. And we see traces of its influence in the duplication which is so common a feature of graphic composition. One poplar in a landscape looks ugly ; two make the picture a 'good composition.' So with two cows in a meadow, two human figures on a sea-coast, etc. Method. — Prepare long series of simple geometrical figures, — crosses, ovals, rectangles, etc., — varying the proportions little by little throughout the series. Lay them before the observer, and let him pick out the most pleasing. The first few chosen will be figures whose proportions are in the near neighbourhood of the golden section ; the last will, in all probability, be symmetrical. All the rest will be indifferent or displeasing. § 88. The u^sthetic Sentiments 309 It must be remembered that the eye is subject to certain illu- sions : vertical distances, e.g., are always overestimated (§ 50). Hence in deciding whether the subject has chosen a figure in accordance with the rule of the golden section, or of symmetry, the experimenter must make allowances for possible illusion. The subjective square is not objectively symmetrical ; but it is chosen because of its subjective symmetry. The amount of illusion in a given case can easily be determined by a few preliminary experi- ments. As regards contours, not much more can be said than that curved lines are, on the whole, more pleasing than straight lines. The meeting of two straight lines in a right angle seems to be particularly displeasing ; the eyes 'feel' the jerk involved in the abrupt change of direction. (2) Nature presents us with so many and so various colour schemes, and painting consists so largely of an imitation of nature, that it is impossible to formulate gen- eral principles of aesthetic grouping in the sphere of col- our. Rules are laid down, in practice, for the guidance of the art-student, as they are for the student of musical composition. Thus we may mention the rule of grada- tion : sharp contrasts are to be avoided, — unless, of course, it is the purpose of the picture to bring them out, — by the use of intermediate shades; the juxtaposition of complementaries is especially undesirable. The principle of compensation requires that a penetrating colour be balanced by a less penetrating ; a spot of vermilion must be compensated by a large area of dull bluish green, placed somewhere in the picture to 'relieve' the red. The principle of duplication also holds ; a painting which contains a large mass of some particular colour is im- proved by the introduction of a smaller patch of the same colour in a different quarter; and so on. But although 3IO Seittiment these and similar rules are doubtless indicative of ultimate aesthetic principles, they do not take us very far towards an understanding of these latter. Writers upon colour decoration, ornamentation, recognise two types of colour scheme : the dominant and the contrasted. The dominant scheme employs a single key-colour, and obtains an aesthetic effect by the arrangement of different ' shades ' and ^ tints ' of this colour (mixtures of the pure with white hght, at different intensities and in different proportions: § 12). Thus if red were chosen as the key-colour, the scheme would be com- posed of red, and of pinks and dark reds. The contrasted scheme employs two key-colours, and interweaves these with their shades and tints into an aesthetic whole. Method. — The most pleasing juxtapositions and arrangements of colours could be investigated by the help of a long series of coloured papers. Strips must be cut, and pasted side by side on a constant background (black or white cardboard). It would probably be found that the subject, though very sure of what was positively ugly, would be in considerable doubt as to the compara- tive beauties of the '■ pretty ' combinations. (3) The most pleasing musical harmony v^as, originally, that of the octave. As the aesthetic judgment developed, however, the place of the octave was taken by other, less unitary tone mixtures. To us the octave sounds 'thin' and 'poor' ; the major third (the union of tonic and medi- ant of a major scale) is the harmony which brings with it the greatest amount of aesthetic pleasure. The octave, then, may be compared to the symmetrical division of a simple visual form, and the major third to its division at the golden section. Method. — Experiments can be made with tuning-forks or piano clangs, as described in § 49. The subject is required to judge of the aesthetic effect of the chords and intervals sounded. § 88. TJie u^stJietic Se7itiments 311 2. The sentiment of sublimity is more complex than that of beauty or ugliness. It contains two central judg- ments : 'This is beautiful' and 'This is great.' The total experience may be pleasant or unpleasant, according to the meaning of the second of these judgments. If 'great' means * so great that my attention cannot grasp it,' the experience is unpleasant : the pleasure of beauty is over- come by the unpleasantness of the emotion of fear, or the sentiment of awe. If 'great' means 'splendid' or 'magnificent,' the whole experience is pleasurable; the sentiment of beauty is simply enhanced. Under these circumstances, the sublime is to the beautiful as a ' handsome ' is to a ' pretty ' face. 3. The sentiments of the ludicrous and the tragic are also complex. The latter combines the judgment 'This is beautiful' with the judgment 'This is undeserved'; there is a mixture of the aesthetic sentiment of beauty with the ethical sentiment of injustice. The total experience may be pleasant or unpleasant, according as the one or the other sentiment predominates.^ — The pleasurable effect of a 'comic' situation is difficult to explain. The situation appears to call forth the judgments 'This is beautiful,' or rather 'This is pretty,'and 'This is contradictory.* There is a quick oscillation of the pleasure of the former and the unpleasantness of the latter judgment. One is tempted to compare the sentiment of the ludicrous with the complex of organic sensations which we call tickling (§§ 19, 59). On its cutaneous side, tickling consists of light pressures 1 It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to state that the scientific meaning of the terms ' tragedy ' and ' tragic ' differs from their popular meaning. The news- papers speak of a murder or a fire as a * tragedy,' when as a matter of fact the situation described arouses the emotion of horror or disgust, not the tragic sen- timent. (^Cf.% 2.) 312 Sentiment (pleasant) which are intermittent (unpleasant : § 34) . As there are no such things as mixed feelings (§ 32), we must have in tick- ling, cutaneously regarded, an alternation of pleasantness and un- pleasantness. A '■ comic ' situation would seem to give rise to just such an alternation, a sort of mental tickling. It is ' pretty ' (pleas- ant), but self-contradictory (logical sentiment of contradiction; unpleasant). Neither the pleasantness nor the unpleasantness is very intensive : if * prettiness ' rises to beauty, we are jarred by the contradictory element, and if the self-contradiction is too pro- nounced, no aesthetic sentiment is aroused at all. We may note that laughter is the natural expression of the comic sentiment, and that some psychologists derive all laughter from that which follows upon tickling (§ 59). We indicated two modes of classifying the emotions (§ 58): they may be divided into two groups, as emotions of the present and the future, or emotions of subject and emotions of object. The aesthetic sentiments appear to be always sentiments of the present. And they appear, also, to be always objective. If the sentiment of beauty is sub- jectified, we have not a sentiment but an emotion : the beautiful scene or object 'charms' or 'entrances' or 'in- toxicates * us, takes possession of consciousness ; the hideous object sets up the emotion of repugnance or disgust. There is a possible exception to this rule in the dignity which is the subjective side of sublimity (sublimity in its second sense, as splendid beauty). Dignity would seem to be a sentiment rather than an emotion. We may note that there are degrees of the aesthetic sentiment, as there are of emotion (§ 60) . A landscape is pretty, beautiful or sublime ; a face comely or handsome, plain, ugly or hideous ; a situation funny, ludicrous or ' excruciatingly ' funny, § 89. The Basis of JEsthetic Sentiment. — We said above that no completely satisfactory account of the origin of the § 89. TJie Basis of ^Esthetic Senthncnt 3 1 3 aesthetic sentiment, no adequate explanation of the power of the beautiful and the ugly to hold the attention, has as yet been given. We may now look briefly at some of the suggestions which have been made. (i) It has been asserted that the five forms of the aes- thetic sentiment proper can all be traced to peculiarities of human structure or function. Thus the human figure is symmetrically built ; hand repeats hand, and foot, foot. Moreover, waist repeats neck, abdomen repeats chest, legs repeat arms. The proportions of height and girth are approximately those of the golden section : a height of 5 feet goes with a girth of 3. Rhythm, again, is given in walking and breathing ; melody, in the natural rise and fall of the voice (§§ 47, 50). Inharmonic combinations of tones produce beats, jarring intermittences of sound, which are intrinsically unpleasant (§ 34). Lastly, the apprecia- tion of colour schemes may have its basis partly in the existence of complementary or contrasting colours (§ 12), partly in the characteristic colour patterns of animals lower in the scale of organic development than our- selves. (2) The polar opposite of this mode of explanation is found in a general principle of beauty, accepted by many writers upon aesthetic questions, — the principle of * unity in multiplicity.' The beautiful impression is that which is at the same time one and more than one. A colour scheme or a melody is a single whole ; yet it is an articulated whole, a whole whose division is as noticeable as its singleness. The primitive aesthetic judgment is unable to cope with any but the most simple articulation : symmetry and the octave are therefore found beautiful at a time when the major third would be dissonant, and division at the golden 3 14 Sentiment section a division which forbade any appreciation of the unity of the divided figure. (3) It has been suggested that the aesthetic sentiment develops from what we have called the 'feeling' (§ 56), a complex composed of an idea and a strong affection. Since an idea represents an object or process in the out- side world, the affection which attaches to it will, it is said, be made up not only of the affections attaching to its component sensations, but of these plus an affection aroused by attention to the idea as a whole ; contents and form of the idea will both alike be affectively toned. Out of the pleasantness or unpleasantness which characterises every idea, -regarded not as a mass of sensations but as an idea, as a form, grow the higher aesthetic sentiments. The first explanation is evidently imperfect. Granted that the proportions and activities of the form peculiar to one's own species are pleasant, there seems to be no reason in the fact for the progress of aesthetics, the extreme attention devoted to aes- thetic influences by civilised peoples. The second is logical, a reflection upon the facts, not psychological (§ 86). The third does not account for the origin of the aesthetic attitude : it simply puts that attitude back as early as the idea, whereas we have dated it from the appearance of the judgment, an association of ideas. The problem, therefore, is no nearer solution than it was in our mere statement of it. Where there is so much disagreement as to general principles, it will be readily understood that there is little agreement upon special points. It is not w^orth while, at present, to enumerate the special hypotheses proposed by different authors. For although it may be true that there is no single psychological law which will explain all the phenomena of the aesthetic sentiment, but that a number of distinct laws are at work to produce the final result, still a list of the special laws hitherto formulated would be just as unsatisfactory as is each of the general principles stated in the text. § 90. TJie IntcUcctital Sentiments 315 § 90. The Intellectual Sentiments. — The intellectual or logical sentiments are the affective experiences which cluster round judgments of truth or falsehood. The situ- ation which evokes the judgment is, in this case, not a concurrence of processes in the outside world, but a con- currence of associations in consciousness ; thought itself, a mental situation, is disjoined by the attention for re- association. We have, therefore, in the intellectual senti- ments another instance of that ' projection outwards ' or 'objectification' which we have seen to be illustrated by the formation of the ideas of affection (§ 59) and of self (§ 81). The intellectual sentiments can be classified, in part, upon the same principles as the emotions (§58). (i) They fall into two great groups as sentiments of the present and sentiments of the future. Thus curiosity (§ i) is a senti- ment of the future, which may become a sentiment of the present in the form of successful thought (curiosity ful- filled), unsuccessful thought (curiosity unfulfilled) or baffled thought (curiosity deferred). (2) The intellectual sentiments fall also into two great groups as objective and subjective sentiments. Each occurs in a more objective and a more subjective form. Thus we have : OBJECTIVE SENTIMENTS SUBJECTIVE SENTIMENTS Objective \ Ag'-e^">^"t- Objective \ T™*" ^ ( Contradiction. ( Falsehood. Subjective \ ' Subjective \ ' ^ (Difficulty. (Disbelief. (3) There are, however, certain sentiments which have no emotive counterparts. These are the oscillatory senti- ments, which accompany a rapid alternation of the atten- 3i6 Sentiment tion between the two possible predicates of the judgment. Thus midway between the sentiments of agreement and contradiction Hes the oscillatory sentiment of obscurity ; between ease and difficulty of thought lies confusion; between truth and falsehood, ambiguity ; and between be- lief and disbelief, doubt. This form of experience is, of course, impossible in cases where only the passive atten- tion is exercised, i.e., in the emotion : oscillation between pleasantness and unpleasantness can take place only when the active attention is present to oscillate. Each one of these sentiments has a corresponding mood. Thus the mood of belief is acquiescence ; that of disbelief, incre- duUty ; that of doubt, indecision. And each one of them may, in course of time, lose its affective tone, and give place to a state of indifference. Method. — The intellectual sentiments might be investigated in the following way. Prepare a number of reasoned statements, — or select them from the lists given in the text-books of formal logic, — some of which are correct, while others contain various logical fallacies. Let the subject give a careful introspective ac- count of the ' feelings ' aroused by their reading. — It is possible that a systematic employment of this method would enable us to distinguish a greater number of special intellectual sentiments than have hitherto been described. A rough notion of the number and forms of the intellectual sen- timents can be obtained by introspection of consciousness during the reading of a piece of scientific reasoning, or the hearing of a scientific lecture. The array of arguments as ' first,' ' secondly,' ' thirdly,' etc., arouses the mood of acquiescence ; an emphatic ' if,' the sentiment of doubt ; a ' but,' the sentiment of contradiction ; a '^Now, then, we can see ..." the sentiment of truth; etc. Literature. — Literature, prose and poetry is, perhaps, the form of art which gives rise to the most complex sentiments. We have in reading it (i) the aesthetic sentiments of rhythm and § 91- Social or Ethical^ Religioiis Sentiments 317 musical harmony; (2) the intellectual sentiments of agreement and truth ; (3) oftentimes an ethical or religious sentiment, at- taching to the contents of the passage read ; and (4) oftentimes a secondary aesthetic sentiment, accompanying the reproductive ideas which supplement the printed words in our minds. We can understand this many-sided effect of literature when we remember the large part played by verbal ideas in every type of consciousness. § 91. The Social or Ethical and the Religious Sentiments. — The situation which arouses an ethical sentiment is any action or group of actions, performed by oneself or an- other, of which the term 'good,' 'bad,' 'right' or 'wrong' may be predicated. It is plain that we have two great classes of these senti- ments: the subjective, attaching to judgment of our own action, and the objective, attaching to judgment of the action of others. Among the subjective may be counted shame and pride, humiliation and vanity, guilt and inno- cence, freedom and restraint, etc. Among the objective are trust and distrust, gratitude and ingratitude, envy and compassion, jealousy and magnanimity, emulation and self-effacement, indebtedness and patronage, forgiveness and revenge, etc. It is plain, too, that some of these sen- timents occur in a more subjective and a more objective form : thus praise and blame are the objective correlates of pride and shame, justice and injustice the objective correlates of innocence and guilt, security and insecurity the subjective correlates of trust and distrust, honour the subjective correlate of duty. But it is impossible to make out a complete list, or to set up a satisfactory classification, of the ethical sentiments. The situation judged is, as a rule, so important to us, so absorbing, that the sentiment 3 1 8 Sentiment passes over into an emotion ; guilt and innocence become hope and fear, envy and compassion are lost in hate and affection ('' pity's akin to love"), humiliation changes to chagrin, etc. Although they spring from a different root, and al- though the judgments to which they attach are intrinsi- cally different, the religious sentiments are, in the civilised society of to-day, most intimately connected with the ethi- cal. Many of the experiences mentioned in the previous paragraph may be grouped round the religious judgment. Further to mention are the sentiments of awe and rever- ence, humility and unworthiness, faith and resignation, exaltation and remorse, etc. All of these sentiments readily pass into emotions. Method. — The ethical and religious sentiments could be inves- tigated, perhaps, by help of the questionnaire. The questionnaire is a series of questions, submitted to a large number of persons for introspective answer ; it is a device to secure the advantages of comparative introspection (§ 9 ; cf. § 35). In the present case, a number of typical instances of conduct would need to be collected. The list would be headed by the direction : ' Read these cases, one by one, and describe intro- spectively the feelings which they arouse in you.' If the persons appealed to were well versed in the employment of psychological method, their replies might go far to bring order into the existing chaos. The expression of the sentiments, so far as it has been investi- gated, does not differ in kind from that of the emotions. Thus if the subject, placed as described in § 33 (2), be shown a prettily painted decorative pattern, pulse and breathing are heightened, and volume and muscular strength increased. CHAPTER XIV The Synthesis of Action. The Reaction Experiment § 92. The Synthesis of Action. — In Chapter X we ana- lysed and classified the various forms of action, but did not attempt an experimental reconstruction of the action- consciousness. We have now to make good this omis- sion ; to put together the processes which we found to be involved in action, and to show by synthesis that our analysis was correct. The method which enables us to effect the synthesis of action, to put together, for experimental purposes, the constituents of which the action-consciousness is com- posed, is known as the reaction juetJiod. A reaction is an artificial action. It is agreed between two persons, the * experimenter ' and the 'reactor,' that on the occur- rence of a certain sensory stimulus (given by the experi- menter) a certain movement shall be made (by the reactor). The sensation set up by the stimulus corre- sponds to the object-idea in impulsive, etc., action ; the simple movement made in response to it corresponds to the complicated movements of crouching down, clinching the fist, etc. We may make the reaction impulsive, voli- tional, etc., as we please, by prearranging the conditions under which the experiment is performed. The reaction experiment consists, on its objective side, in the accurate measurement of the time elapsing between 319 320 Synthesis of Action. Reaction Experiment the occurrence of the sensory stimulus and the execution of the movement in response to it ; on its subjective side, in the introspective examination of the conscious processes which run their course during this time, and for some 2 sec. before it. The responsive movement may follow at once upon the sensing of the stimulus, or may be restrained until certain connections have been formed in consciousness. In the former case we speak of a simple^ in the latter of a compound reaction. Fig. io. Method. — Figure lo shows one of the sets of apparatus most commonly employed in the reaction experiment. A and B are different rooms : the reactor sits in the reacting room, B, the experimenter, who notes the time taken by the reaction, in the registration room, A. Reactor and experimenter are separated in order that the reactor's introspection may be undisturbed by noise, etc. « is a telegraph key. The reaction movement employed with this set of instruments consists in the lifting of the first or second finger of the right hand from the button of the key. b is a steel hammer (§ 29), the head of which can be lowered so as to § 92. The Synthesis of Action 321 strike upon a steel block placed beneath it. The sound made by the fall of the hammer is the stimulus to which the subject in the present experiments is to react.